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TEE  FIRST  VIOLm 


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The  First  Violin 


a  ^ol^el 


By  Jessie  Fothergill 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS        i.       &       NEW     YORK 


SRLF 
liRL 


0-/    , 


COISTTENTa 


CBiASVBSt 
I. 

n. 

m. 

IV. 
V. 


BOOK  L 
Beb  Angusxa  Doml 


7 

11 

18 
21 


I. 

n. 
ni. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VIL 

VIII. 

IX. 


BOOK  n. 

Jase. 


S7 

,     45 

55 
,     63 

67 
.     75 

81 
,      89 

96 


L 

n. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 


BOOK  m. 

EtIGEN  CoUKVOISrES. 


.    106 

lid 

.    136 

140 
•    152 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTES 

L 

n. 
rv. 

V. 

VI. 

VIL 


BOOK  IV. 

CHrLDRBU  05"  THE  WOELD. 


.    161 

166 
<,    179 

191 
.    199 

205 
.    213 


BOOK  V. 

V^  ViCTISf 

L 

'"  • 

•               •               •                • 

o              • 

217 

n. 

e 

•             •            •             • 

•              • 

.    230 

III. 

•                 #                  -                 • 

•              • 

239 

IV. 

• 

•                        0                         •                        • 

e                 • 

.    251 

V. 

•               •                •               • 

•                • 

257 

VI. 

• 

•              •              •              • 

i 

.    266 

VII. 

•                •                •               a 

•         • 

27G 

rm. 

• 

•            •            •             • 

•         • 

.    284 

IX. 

»               •               •               • 

BOOK  VL 

KOTHEKFELS. 

•         • 

28S 

I 

IL 
III. 
IV. 

V. 
VL 


.  296 
316 

.  317 
338 

.  347 
861 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


BOOK  I. 
BES  ANGUSTA  DOML  ) 


CHAPTER  I. 

MISS    HALLAM. 

**  "WoNDEEPUL  weather  for  April! "  Yes,  it  certainly  was 
wonderful.  I  fully  agreed  with  the  sentiment  expressed  at 
different  periods  of  the  day  by  different  members  of  my 
family;  but  I  did  not  follow  their  example  and  seek  enjoy- 
ment out  of  doors — pleasure  in  that  balmy  spring  air. 
Trouble — the  first  trouble  of  my  life — had  laid  her  haaid 
heavily  upon  me.  The  world  felt  disjointed  and  all  upside 
down;  I  very  helpless  and  lonely  in  it.  I  had  two  sisters,  I 
had  a  father  and  a  mother;  but  none  the  less  was  I  unable  to 
share  my  grief  with  any  one  of  them;  nay,  it  had  been  an 
absolute  relief  to  me  when  first  one  and  then  another  of  them 
had  left  the  house,  on  business  or  pleasure  intent,  and  I,  after 
watching  my  father  go  down  the  garden  walk,  and  seeing  the 
gate  close  after  him,  knew  that,  except  for  Jane,  our  domes- 
tic, who  was  caroling  lustily  to  herself  in  the  kitchen  regions, 
I  was  alone  in  the  house. 

I  was  in  the  drawing  room.  Once  secure  of  solitude,  I 
put  down  the  sewing  with  which  I  had  been  pretending  to 
employ  myself,  and  went  to  the  window — a  pleasant,  sunny 
bay.  In  that  window  stood  a  small  work  table,  with  a  flower- 
pot upon  it  containing  a  lilac  primula.  I  remember  it  dis- 
tinctly to  this  day,  and  am  likely  to  carry  the  recollection 
with  me  so  long  as  I  live.  I  leaned  my  elbows  upon  this 
table,  and  gazed  across  the  fields,  green  with  spring  grass. 


8  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

tenderly  lighted  by  an  April  sun,  to  where  the  river — ^the 
Skern — shone  with  a  pleasant,  homely,  silvery  glitter,  twin- 
ing through  the  smiling  meadows  till  he  bent  round  the 
solemn  overhanging  clift'  crowned  with  mournful  firs,  which 
went  by  the  name  of  the  Eifted  or  Eiven  Scaur. 

In  some  such  deligiitful  mead  might  the  white-armed 
Nausicaa  have  tossed  her  cowslip  balls  among  the  other 
maids;  perhaps  by  some  such  river  might  Persephone  have 
paused  to  gather  the  daffodil — "  the  fateful  flower  beside 
the  rill."  Light  clouds  flitted  across  the  sky,  a  waft  of  wind 
danced  in  at  the  open  window,  ruffling  my  hair  mockingly, 
and  bearing  with  it  the  deep  sound  of  a  church  clock  strik- 
ing four. 

As  if  the  striking  of  the  hour  had  been  the  signal  for  the 
breaking  of  the  spell,  the  silence  that  had  prevailed  came  to 
an  end.  Wheels  came  rolling  along  the  road  up  to  the  door, 
which,  however,  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  house.  "A 
visitor  for  my  father,  no  doubt,"  I  thought  indifferently; 
*'  and  he  has  gone  out  to  read  the  funeral  service  for  a  dead 
parishioner.  How  strange!  I  wonder  how  clergymen  and 
doctors  can  ever  get  accustomed  to  the  grim  contrasts  amid 
which  they  live! " 

I  suffered  my  thoughts  to  wander  off  in  some  such  track  as 
tliis,  but  they  were  all  through  dominated  by  a  heavy  sense 
of  oppression — the  threatening  hand  of  a  calamity  which  I 
feared  was  about  to  overtake  me,  and  I  had  again  forgotten 
the  outside  world. 

The  door  was  opened.  Jane  held  it  open  and  said  nothing 
(a  trifling  habit  of  hers,  which  used  to  cause  me  much  annoy- 
ance), and  a  tall  woman  walked  slowly  into  the  room.  I 
rose  and  looked  earnestly  at  her,  surprised  and  somewhat 
nervous  when  I  saw  who  she  was — Miss  Hallam  of  Hallam 
Grange,  our  near  neighboa",  but  a  great  stranger  to  us,  never- 
theless, so  far,  that  is,  as  personal  intercourse  went. 

"  Your  servant  told  me  that  everyone  was  out  except  Miss 
May,"  she  remarked,  in  a  harsh,  decided  voice,  as  she  looked 
not  so  much  at  me  as  toward  me,  and  I  perceived  that  there 
was  something  strange  about  her  eyes. 

"  Yes;  I  am  sorry,"  I  began  doubtfully. 

She  had  sallow,  strongly  marked,  but  proud  and  aristo- 
cratic features,  and  a  manner  with  more  than  a  tinge  of  im- 
■periousness.  Her  face,  her  figure,  her  voice,  were  familiar, 
yet  strange  to  me — ^familiar  because  I  had  heard  of  her,  and 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  9 

been  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  seeing  her  from  my  very 
earliest  childhood;  strange,  because  she  was  reserved,  and  not 
given  to  seeing  her  neighbors'  houses  for  purposes  either  of 
gossip  or  hospitality.  I  was  aware  that  about  once  in  two 
years  she  made  a  call  at  our  house,  the  vicarage;  whether  as 
a  mark  of  politeness  to  us,  or  to  show  that,  though  she  never 
entered  a  church,  she  still  chose  to  lend  her  countenance  and 
approval  to  the  Estabhshment,  or  whether  merely  out  of  old 
use  and  habit,  I  knew  not.  I  only  knew  that  she  came,  and 
that  until  now  it  had  never  fallen  to  my  lot  to  be  present 
upon  any  of  those  momentous  occasions. 

Feeling  it  a  httle  hard  that  my  coveted  solitude  should 
thus  be  interrupted,  and  not  quite  knowing  what  to  say  to 
her,  I  sat  down,  and  there  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Is  your  mother  well?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  very  well.  She  has  gone  with  my  sister 
to  Darton." 

"  Your  father? '' 

"He  is  well,  too,  thank  you.  He  has  a  funeral  this 
ftfternoon." 

"  I  think  you  have  two  sisters,  have  you  not?  " 

"  Yes;  Adelaide  and  Stella." 

*'  And  which  are  you?  " 

"  May;  I  am  the  second  one." 

All  her  questions  were  put  in  an  almost  severe  tone,  and 
not  as  if  she  took  very  much  interest  in  me  or  mine.  I  felt 
my  timidity  increase,  and  yet — I  liked  her.  Yes,  I  felt  most 
distinctly  that  I  liked  her. 

"  May,"  she  remarked,  meditatively;  "  I^Iay  "Wedderburn. 
Are  you  aware  that  you  have  a  very  pretty  north-country- 
sounding  name?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  it." 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

*'  I  am  a  little  over  seventeen." 

"  Ah!    And  what  do  you  do  all  day?  " 

"  Oh!"  I  began  doubtfully,  "not  much,  I  am  afraid,  that 
is  useful  or  valuable." 

"  You  are  young  enough  yet.  Don't  begin  to  do  things 
with  a  purpose  for  some  time  to  come.  Be  happy  while 
you  can." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  happy,"  I  replied,  not  thinking  of  what 
I  was  saying,  and  then  feeling  that  I  could  have  bitten  my 
tongue  out  with  vexation.     What  could  it  possibly  matter  to 


10  THE  FIRST  TIOLIN. 

Miss  Hallam  whether  I  were  happy  or  not?  She  was  asking 
me  all  these  questions  to  pass  the  time,  and  in  order  to  talk 
about  something  while  she  sat  in  our  house. 

"  What  makes  you  unhappy?  Are  your  sisters  dis- 
agreeable?'* 

"  Oh,  no! " 

"  Are  your  parents  unkind?  " 

"Unkind! "  I  echoed,  thinking  what  a  very  extraordinary 
woman  she  was,  and  wondering  what  kind  of  experience  hers 
could  have  been  in  the  past. 

"  Then  I  cannot  imagine  what  cause  for  unhappiness  you 
can  have,"  she  said  composedly. 

I  made  no  answer.  I  repented  me  of  having  uttered  the 
words,  and  Miss  Hallam  went  on: 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  unhappiness.     You  will  soon  succeed." 

"  Yes — I  will  try,"  said  I  in  a  low  voice,  as  the  cause  of 
my  unhappiness  rose  up — gaunt,  grim,  and  forbidding, 
with  thin  lips  curved  in  a  mocking  smile,  and  glittering, 
snakelike  eyes  fixed  upon  my  face.  I  shivered  faintly;  and 
she,  though  looking  quickly  at  me,  seemed  to  think  she  had 
said  enough  about  my  unhappiness.  Her  next  question  sur- 
prised me  much. 

"  Are  you  fair  in  complexion?  "  she  inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "I  am  very  fair — ^fairer  than  either  of 
my  sisters.     But,  are  you  near-sighted?" 

"  Near  sightZess,"  she  replied  with  a  bitter  little  laugh. 
"  Cataract.  I  have  so  many  joys  in  my  life  that  Provi- 
dence has  thought  fit  to  temper  the  sunsliine  of  my  lot.  I 
am  to  content  myself  with  the  store  of  pleasant  remembrances 
with  which  my  mind  is  crowded,  when  I  can  see  nothing  out- 
side. A  delightful  arrangement.  It  is  what  pious  people 
call  a  *  cross,'  or  a  '  visitation,'  or  something  of  that  kind.  I 
am  not  pious,  and  I  call  it  the  destruction  of  what  little  happi- 
ness I  had." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  you! "  I  answered,  feeling 
what  I  spoke,  for  it  had  always  been  my  idea  of  misery  to  be 
blind — shut  away  from  the  sunlight  upon  the  fields,  from  the 
hue  of  the  river,  from  all  that  "  lust  of  the  eye  "  which  meets 
us  on  every  side. 

" But  are  you  quite  alone? "  I  continued.  "Have  you  no 
one  to " 

I  stopped;  I  was  about  to  add,  "  to  be  kind  to  you — ^to  take 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  11 

care  of  you?  but  I  suddenly  remembered  that  it  would  not 
do  for  me  to  ask  such  questions. 

"  No,  I  live  quite  alone,"  said  she  abruptly.  "  Did  you 
think  of  offering  to  relieve  my  solitude?" 

I  felt  myself  burning  with  a  hot  blush  all  over  my  face  as  I 
stammered  out: 

"I  am  sure  I  never  thought  of  anything  so  impertinent, 
but — but — if  there  was  anything  I  could  do — read  or " 

I  stopped  again.  Never  very  confident  in  myself,  I  felt  a 
miserable  sense  that  I  might  have  been  going  too  far.  I 
wished  most  ardently  that  my  mother  or  Adelaide  had  been 
there  to  take  the  weight  of  such  a  conversation  from  my 
shoulders.  What  was  my  surprise  to  hear  Mss  Hallam  say 
in  a  tone  quite  smooth,  polished,  and  polite: 

"  Come  and  drink  tea  with  me  to-morrow  afternoon — 
afternoon  tea,  I  mean.  You  can  go  away  again  as  soon  as 
you  like.     Will  you?" 

"  Oh,  thank  you!    Yes,  I  will." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  expect  you  between  four  and  five. 
Good-afternoon." 

"  Let  me  come  with  you  to  your  carriage,"  said  I  hastily. 
*'  Jane,  our  servant,  is  so  clumsy." 

I  preceded  her  with  care,  saw  her  seated  in  her  carriage 
and  driven  toward  the  Grange,  which  was  but  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  our  own  gates,  and  then  I  returned  to  the  house. 
And  as  I  went  in  again,  my  companion-shadow  glided  once 
more  to  my  side  with  soft,  insinuating,  irresistible  impor- 
tunity, and  I  knew  that  it  would  be  my  faithful  attendant 
for — who  could  say  how  long? 


CHAPTEE  II. 

"Traversons  gravement  ce  mechant  mascarade  qu'on  appelle  le 
xnonde." 

The  houses  in  Skemford — the  houses  of  "the  gentry," 
that  is  to  say — lay  almost  all  on  one  side  of  an  old-fashioned, 
sleepy-looking  "  green,"  toward  which  their  entrances  lay; 
but  their  real  front,  their  pleasantest  aspect,  was  on  the  other 
side,  facing  the  river,  which  ran  below,  and  down  to  which 
their  gardens  sloped  in  terraces.  Our  house,  the  vicarage, 
lay  nearest  the  church;  Miss  Hallam's  house,  the  Grange, 
furthest  from  the  church.    Between  these,  lai'ger  and  more 


12  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

imposing,  in  grounds  beside  which  ours  seemed  to  dwindle 
down  to  a  few  flower  beds,  lay  Deeplish  Hall,  whose  owner. 
Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  had  lately  come  to  Uve  there,  at  least 
for  a  time. 

It  was  many  years  since  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  whose 
image  at  tliis  time  was  fated  to  enter  so  largely  and  so  much 
against  my  will  into  all  my  calculations,  had  lived  at  or  even 
visited  his  estate  at  Skernford.  He  was  a  man  of  immense 
property,  and  report  said  that  Deephsh  Hall,  which  we  inno- 
cent villagers  looked  upon  as  such  an  imposing  mansion,  was 
but  one  and  not  the  grandest  of  his  several  country  houses. 
All  that  I  knew  of  his  history — or,  rather,  all  that  I  had  heard 
of  it,  whether  truly  or  not,  I  was  in  no  position  to  say — was 
but  a  vague  and  misty  account;  yet  that  little  had  given  me 
a  dislike  to  him  before  I  ever  met  him. 

Miss  Hallam,  our  neighbor,  who  lived  in  such  solitude  and 
retirement,  was  credited  with  having  a  history — if  report  had 
only  been  able  to  fix  upon  what  it  was.  She  was  popularly 
supposed  to  be  of  a  grim  and  decidedly  eccentric  disposition. 
Eccentric  she  was,  as  I  afterward  found — as  I  thought 
when  I  first  saw  her.  She  seldom  appeared  either  in  church  or 
upon  any  other  public  occasion,  and  was  said  to  be  the  deadly 
enemy  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant  and  all  pertaining  to  him. 
There  was  some  old,  far-back  romance  connected  with  it — a 
romance  which  I  did  not  understand,  for  up  to  now  I  had 
never  known  either  her  or  Sir  Peter  sufficiently  to  take  any 
interest  in  the  story;  but  the  report  ran  that,  in  days  gone 
by — how  far  gone  by,  too,  they  must  have  been! — Miss 
Hallam,  a  young  and  handsome  heiress,  loved  very  devotedly 
her  one  sister,  and  that  sister — so  much  was  known  as  a 
fact — had  become  Lady  Le  Marchant:  was  not  her  monument 
in  the  church  between  the  Deeplish  Hall  and  the  Hallam 
Grange  pews?  Was  not  the  tale  of  her  virtues  and  her  years 
— seven-and-twenty  only  did  she  count  of  the  latter — there 
recorded?  That  Barbara  Hallam  had  been  married  to  Sir 
Peter  was  matter  of  history;  what  was  not  matter  of  history, 
but  of  tradition  which  was  believed  in  quite  firmly,  was  that 
the  baronet  had  ill-treated  his  wife — in  what  way  was  not 
distinctly  specified,  but  I  have  since  learned  that  it  was  true; 
she  was  a  gentle  creature,  and  he  made  her  life  miserable  unto 
her.  She  was  idolized  by  her  elder  sister,  who,  burning  with 
indignation  at  the  treatment  to  which  her  darhng  had  been 
subjected,  had  become,  even  in  disposition,  an  altered  womazL 


THE  FIRST  riOZm.  13 

From  a  cheerful,  open-hearted,  generous,  somewhat  brusque 
young  person,  she  had  grown  into  a  prematurely  old,  soured, 
revengeful  woman.  It  was  to  her  that  the  weak  and  injured 
sister  had  fled;  it  was  in  her  arms  that  she  had  died.  Since 
her  sister's  death,  Miss  Hallam  had  withdrawn  entirely  from 
eociety,  cherishing  a  perpetual  grudge  against  Sir  Peter  Le 
Marchant.  Whether  she  had  relations  or  none,  friends  or 
acquaintance,  outside  the  small  village  in  which  she  lived, 
none  knew.  If  so,  they  limited  their  intercourse  with  her  to 
correspondence,  for  no  visitor  ever  penetrated  to  her  damp 
old  Grange,  nor  had  she  ever  been  known  to  leave  it  with  the 
purpose  of  making  any  Journey  abroad.  If  perfect  silence  and 
perfect  retirement  could  hush  the  tongues  of  tradition  and 
report,  then  Miss  Hallam's  story  should  have  been  forgotten. 
But  it  was  not  forgotten.  Such  things  never  do  become 
forgotten. 

It  was  only  since  Sir  Peter  had  appeared  suddenly  some 
six  weeks  ago  at  Deeplish  Hall,  that  these  dry  bones  of  tra- 
dition had  for  me  quickened  into  something  like  life,  and  had 
acquired  a  kind  of  interest  for  me. 

Our  father,  as  vicar  of  the  parish,  had  naturally  called  upon 
Sir  Peter,  and  as  naturally  invited  him  to  his  house.  His 
visits  had  begun  by  his  coming  to  lunch  one  day,  and  we  had 
speculated  about  him  a  little  in  advance,  half  jestingly,  rak- 
ing up  old  stories,  and  attributing  to  him  various  evil  quali- 
ties of  a  hard  and  loveless  old  age.  But  after  he  had  gone,  the 
verdict  of  Stella  and  myself  was,  "  Much  worse  than  we  ex- 
pected." He  was  different  from  what  we  had  expected.  Per- 
haps that  annoyed  us.  Instead  of  being  able  to  laugh  at  him, 
we  found  him  something  oppressive,  chilling — to  me  fright- 
ful, in  the  cold,  sneering  smile  which  seemed  perpetually 
hovering  about  his  thin  lips — in  the  fixed,  snaky  glitter  of 
his  still,  intent  gray  eyes.  His  face  was  pale,  his  manners 
were  polished,  but  to  meet  his  eye  was  a  thing  I  hated,  and 
the  touch  of  his  hand  made  me  shudder.  While  speaking 
in  the  politest  possible  manner,  he  had  eyed  over  Adelaide 
and  me  in  a  manner  wliich  I  do  not  think  either  of  us 
had  ever  experienced  before.  I  hated  him  from  the  moment 
in  which  I  saw  him  looldng  at  me  with  an  expression  of  appro- 
val. To  be  approved  by  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant — could  fate 
devise  anything  more  horrible?  Yes,  I  knew  now  that  it 
could;  one  might  have  to  submit  to  the  approval,  to  live  in 
the  approval.     I  had  expressed  my  opinion  on  the  subject 


14  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

with  freedom  to  Adelaide,  who  to  my  surprise  had  not  agreed 
with  me,  and  had  told  me  coldly  that  I  had  no  business  to 
speak  disrespectfully  of  my  father's  visitors.  I  was  silenced, 
but  unhappy.  From  the  first  moment  of  seeing  Sir  Peter,  I 
had  felt  an  uncomfortable,  uneasy  feeling,  which,  had  I  been 
sentimental,  I  might  have  called  a  presentiment;  but  I  was 
not  sentimental.  I  was  a  healthy  girl  of  seventeen,  believing 
in  true  love,  and  goodness,  and  gentleness  very  earnestly; 
"  fancy  free,''  having  read  few  novels,  and  heard  no  gossip — 
a  very  baby  in  many  respects.  Our  home  might  be  a  quiet 
one,  a  poor  one,  a  dull  one — our  circle  of  acquaintance  small, 
our  distractions  of  the  most  limited  description  imaginable, 
but  at  least  we  knew  no  evil,  and — I  speak  for  Stella  and  my- 
self— thought  none.  Our  father  and  mother  were  persons 
with  nothing  whatever  remarkable  about  them.  Both  had 
been  handsome.  My  mother  was  pretty,  my  father  good- 
looking  yet.  I  loved  them  both  dearly.  It  had  never  entered 
my  head  to  do  otherwise  than  love  them;  but  the  love  which 
made  the  star  and  the  poetry  of  my  quiet  and  unromantic  life 
was  that  I  bore  to  Adelaide,  my  eldest  sister.  I  beheved  in 
her  devotedly,  and  accepted  her  judgment,  given  in  her  own 
peculiar,  proud,  decided  way,  upon  every  topic  on  which  she 
chose  to  express  it.  She  was  one-and-twenty,  and  I  used  to 
think  I  could  lay  down  my  life  for  her. 

It  was  consequently  a  shock  to  me  to  hear  her  speak  in 
praise — yes,  in  praise  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  distrust  my  own  judgment,  but  no;  I  could 
not  long  do  so.  He  was  repulsive;  he  was  stealthy,  hard, 
cruel  in  appearance.  I  could  not  account  for  Adelaide's  per- 
versity in  liking  him,  and  passed  puzzled  days  and  racked  my 
brain  in  conjecture  as  to  why,  when  Sir  Peter  came,  Adelaide 
should  be  always  at  home,  always  neat  and  fresh — ^not  like 
me.  Why  was  Adelaide,  who  found  it  too  much  trouble  to 
join  Stella  and  me  in  our  homely  concerts,  always  ready 
to  indulge  Sir  Peter's  taste  for  music,  to  entertain  him 
with  conversation? — and  she  could  talk.  She  was  unlike  me 
in  that  respect.  I  never  had  a  brilliant  gift  of  conversation. 
She  was  witty  about  the  things  she  did  know,  and  never  com- 
mitted the  fatal  mistake  of  pretending  to  be  up  in  things  she 
did  not  know.  These  gifts  of  mind,  these  social  powers,  were 
always  ready  for  the  edification  of  Sir  Peter.  By  degrees 
the  truth  forced  itself  upon  me.  Someone  said — I  overheard 
it~that  "  that  handsome  Miss  Wedderbum  was  undoubtedly 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  15 

fletting  her  cap  at  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant."  Never  shall  I 
iorget  the  fury  with  which  it  first  possessed  me,  the  convic- 
tion which  gradually  stole  over  me  that  it  was  true.  My 
sister  Adelaide,  beautiful,  proud,  clever — and,  I  had  always 
thought  good — had  distinctly  in  view  the  purpose  of  becom- 
ing Lady  Le  Marchant.  1  shed  countless  tears  over  the 
miserable  discovery,  and  dared  not  speak  to  her  of  it.  Put 
that  was  not  the  worst.  My  horizon  darkened.  One 
horrible  day  I  discovered  that  it  was  I,  and  not  Adelaide,  who 
had  attracted  Sir  Peter's  attentions.  It  was  not  a  scene,  not 
a  set  declaration.  It  was  a  word  in  that  smooth  voice,  a 
glance  from  that  hated  and  cliilling  eye,  which  suddenly 
aroused  me  to  the  truth. 

Shuddering,  dismayed,  I  locked  the  matter  up  within  my 
own  breast,  and  Avished,  with  a  longing  that  sometimes  made 
me  quite  wretched,  that  I  could  quit  Skemford,  my  home, 
my  hfe,  which  had  lost  zest  for  me,  and  was  become  a  burden 
to  me.  The  knowledge  that  Sir  Peter  admired  me  absolutely 
degi-aded  me  in  my  own  eyes.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  hold 
up  my  head.  I  had  spoken  to  no  one  of  what  had  passed 
within  me,  and  I  trusted  that  it  had  not  been  noticed;  but 
all  my  joy  was  gone.  It  was  as  if  I  stood  helpless  while  a 
noisome  reptile  coiled  its  folds  around  me. 

To-day,  after  Miss  Hallam's  departure,  I  dropped  into  my 
now  chronic  state  of  listlessness  and  sadness.  They  all  came 
back;  my  father  from  the  church;  my  mother  and  Adelaide 
from  Darton,  whither  they  had  been  on  a  shopping  expedi- 
tion; Stella  from  a  stroll  by  the  river.  We  had  tea,  and  they 
dispersed  quite  cheerfully  to  their  various  occupations-  I, 
seeing  the  gloaming  gently  and  dim  falling  over  the  earth, 
walked  out  of  the  house  and  into  the  garden,  and  took 
iny  way  toward  the  river.  I  passed  an  arbor  in  which 
Stella  and  I  had  loved  to  sit  and  watch  the  stream,  and 
talk  and  read  Miss  Austen's  novels.  Stella  Avas  there  now, 
with  a  well-thumbed  copy  of  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  "  in  her 
hand. 

"  Come  aad  sit  down.  May,"  she  apostrophized  me.  "  Do 
listen  to  this  about  Bingley  and  Wickham." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  I  abstractedly,  and  feeling  that 
Stella  was  not  the  person  to  whom  I  could  confide  my  woe. 
Indeed,  on  scanning  mentally  the  list  of  my  acquaintance, 
I  found  that  there  was  not  one  in  whom  I  could  confide.  It 
^ave  me  a  strange  sense  of  loneliness  and  aloofness,  and  hard- 


16  TEE  FIRST  YIOLW. 

end  me  more  than  the  reading  of  a  hundred  satires  on  tne 
meanness  of  society. 

I  went  along  the  terrace  by  the  riverside,  and  looked  up 
to  the  left — traces  of  Sir  Peter  again.  There  was  the  terrace 
of  Deeplish  Hall,  which  stood  on  a  height  just  above  a  bend 
in  the  river.  It  was  a  fine  old  place.  The  sheen  of  the  glass 
houses  caught  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  glanced  in  them.  It 
looked  rich,  old,  and  peaceful.  I  had  been  many  a  time 
through  its  gardens,  and  thought  them  beautiful,  and  wished 
they  belonged  to  me.  Now  I  felt  that  they  lay,  in  a  manner, 
at  my  feet,  and  my  strongest  feeling  respecting  them  was  an 
earnest  wish  that  I  might  never  see  them  again. 

Thus  agreeably  meditating,  I  insensibly  left  our  own  gar- 
den and  wandered  on,  in  the  now  quickly  falling  twilight,  into 
a  narrow  path,  leading  across  a  sort  of  No-Man's-Land  into 
the  demesne  of  Sir  Peter  Marchant.  In  my  trouble  I  scarcely 
remarked  where  I  was  going,  and  with  my  eyes  cast  upon  the 
ground  was  wishing  that  I  could  feel  again  as  I  once  had 
felt,  when 

•*  I  nothing  had,  and  yet  enough  "; 

and  was  sadly  wondering  what  I  could  do  to  escape  from  the 
net  in  which  I  felt  myself  caught,  when  a  shadow  darkened 
the  twihght  in  which  I  stood,  and  looking  up  I  saw  Sir  Peter, 
and  heard  these  words: 

"  Good-evening,  Mss  Wedderburn.  Are  you  enjoying  a 
little  stroll? '' 

By,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  some  strange  miracle,  all  my  in- 
ward fears  and  tremblings  vanished.  I  did  not  feel  afraid 
of  Sir  Peter  in  the  least.  I  felt  that  here  was  a  crisis.  This 
meeting  would  show  me  whether  my  fears  had  been  ground- 
less, and  my  own  vanity  and  self-consciousness  of  unparal- 
leled proportions,  or  whether  I  had  judged  truly,  and  had 
good  reasons  for  my  qualms  and  anticipations. 

It  came.  The  alarm  had  not  been  a  false  one.  Sir  Peter, 
after  conversing  with  me  for  a  short  time,  did,  in  clear  and 
unmistakable  terms,  inform  me  that  he  loved  me,  and  asked 
me  to  marry  him. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  I,  mastering  my  impulse  to  cover  my 
face  with  my  hands  and  run  shuddering  away  from  him — 
"I  thank  you  for  the  honor  you  offer  me,  and  beg  to 
Recline  it." 


TEE  FIBST  YIOLIN.  17 

He  looked  surprised,  and  still  continued  to  urge  me  in  a 
manner  which  roused  a  deep  inner  feeling  of  indignation 
within  me,  for  it  seemed  to  say  that  he  understood  me  to 
be  overwhelmed  with  the  honor  he  proposed  to  confer  upon 
me,  and  humored  my  timidity  about  accepting  it.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  his  manner,  not  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion 
that  I  could  be  in  earnest.  There  was  something  that 
turned  my  heart  cold  within  me — a  cool,  sneering  tone, 
which  not  all  his  professions  of  affection  could  disguise. 
Since  that  time  I  have  heard  Sir  Peter  explicitly  state  his 
conception  of  the  sphere  of  woman  in  the  world;  it  was  not 
an  exalted  one.  He  could  not  even  now  quite  conceal  that, 
while  he  told  me  he  wished  to  make  me  his  wife  and  the 
partner  of  his  heart  and  possessions,  yet  he  knew  that  such 
professions  were  but  words — that  he  did  not  sue  for  my  love 
(poor  Sir  Peter!  I  doubt  if  ever  in  his  long  life  he  waa 
blessed  with  even  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  divine  coun- 
tenance of  pure  Love),  but  offered  to  buy  my  youth,  and 
such  poor  beauty  as  I  might  have,  with  his  money  and  his 
other  worldly  advantages. 

Sir  Peter  was  a  blank,  utter  skeptic  with  regard  to  the 
worth  of  women.  He  did  not  believe  in  their  virtue  nor 
their  self-respect;  he  believed  them  to  be  clever  actresses, 
and,  taken  all  in  all,  the  best  land  of  amusement  to  be  had 
for  money.  The  kind  of  opinion  was  then  new  to  me; 
the  effect  of  it  upon  my  mind  such  as  might  be  expected. 
I  was  seventeen,  and  an  ardent  believer  in  all  things  pure 
and  of  good  report. 

Nevertheless,  I  remained  composed,  sedate,  even  cour- 
teous to  the  last — till  I  had  fairly  made  Sir  Peter  under- 
stand that  no  earthly  power  should  induce  me  to  marry  him; 
till  I  had  let  him  see  that  I  fully  comprehended  the 
advantages  of  the  position  he  offered  me,  and  declined  them. 

"  Miss  Wedderbum,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  voice  was 
as  unruffled  as  my  own — had  it  been  more  angry,  I  should 
have  feared  it  less,  "  do  you  fear  opposition?  I  do  not  think 
your  parents  would  refuse  their  consent  to  our  union." 

I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  a  hand  seemed  to 
tighten  about  my  heart.    Then  I  said: 

"I  speak  without  reference  to  my  parents.  In  such  a 
matter  I  judge  for  myself." 

"Always  the  same  answer?" 

"  Always  the  same.  Sir  Peter/' 


18  TEE  FIE8T  YIOLm. 

"It  would  be  most  -ungentlemanly  to  press  the  subject 
any  further."  His  eyes  were  fbied  upon  me  with  the  same 
cold,  snakelike  smile.  "I  will  not  be  guilty  of  such  a 
solecism.  Your  family  affections,  my  dear  young  lady,  are 
strong,  I  should  suppose.    Which — whom  do  you  love  best?  '* 

Surprised  at  the  blunt  straightforwardness  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  coming  from  him,  I  replied  thoughtlessly:  "  Oh, 
my  sister  Adelaide." 

"  Indeed!  I  should  imagine  she  was  in  every  way  worthy 
the  esteem  of  so  disinterested  a  person  as  yourself.  A  dif- 
ferent disposition,  though — quite.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
touch  your  hand  before  I  retire  ?  " 

Trembling  with  uneasy  forebodings,  roused  by  his  con- 
tinual sneering  smile  and  the  peculiar  evil  light  in  his  eyes, 
I  yet  went  through  with  my  duty  to  the  end.  He  took  the 
hand  I  extended,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  low  bow. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Wedderbum." 

Faintly  returning  his  valediction,  I  saw  him  go  away,  and 
then,  in  a  dream,  a  maze,  a  bewilderment,  I  too  turned 
slowly  away  and  walked  to  the  house  again.  I  felt,  I  knew, 
I  had  behaved  well  and  discreetly,  but  I  had  no  confidence 
whatever  that  the  matter  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  III. 

**  Lucifer,  Star  of  the  Mornicg  1    How  art  thou  fallen !  ** 

I  FOUND  myself,  without  having  met  any  one  of  my 
family,  in  my  own  room,  in  the  semi-darkness,  seated  on  a 
chair  by  my  bedside,  unnerved,  faint,  miserable  with  a 
mise»ry  such  as  I  had  never  felt  before.  The  window  was 
open,  and  there  came  up  a  faint  scent  of  sweetbrier  and 
wall-flowers  in  soft,  balmy  gusts,  driven  into  the  room  by 
the  April  night  wind.  There  rose  a  moon  and  flooded  the 
earth  with  radiance.  Then  came  a  sound  of  footsteps;  the 
door  of  the  next  room,  that  belonging  to  Adelaide,  was 
opened.  I  heard  her  come  in,  strike  a  match,  and  light  her 
candle;  the  click  of  the  catch  as  the  blind  rolled  down. 
There  was  a  door  between  her  room  and  mine,  and  presently 
she  passed  it,  and,  bearing  a  candle  in  her  hand,  stood  in 
my  presence.  My  sister  was  very  beautiful,  very  proud. 
She  was  cleverer,  stronger,  more  decided  than  I,  or  rather. 


TEE  FIHaT  VIOLm.  1» 

while  she  had  those  qualities  very  strongly  developed,  I  was 
almost  without  them.  She  always  held  her  head  up,  and 
had  one  of  those  majestic  figures  which  require  no  back- 
boards to  teach  tliem  uprightness,  no  master  of  deportment 
to  instill  grace  into  their  movements.  Her  toilet  and  mine 
were  not,  as  may  be  supposed,  of  very  rich  materials  or 
varied  character;  but  while  my  things  always  looked  as  bad 
of  their  kind  as  they  could — fitted  badly,  sat  badly,  were 
creased  and  crumpled — hers  always  had  a  look  of  freshness; 
6he  wore  the  merest  old  black  merino  as  if  it  were  velvet, 
and  a  muslin  frill  like  a  point-lace  collar.  There  are  such 
people  in  the  world.  I  have  always  admired  them,  envied 
them,  wondered  at  them  from  afar;  it  has  never  been  my 
fate  in  the  smallest  degree  to  approach  or  emulate  them. 

Her  pale  face,  with  its  perfect  outlines,  was  just  illumined 
by  the  candle  she  held,  and  the  light  also  caught  the  crown 
of  massive  plaits  which  she  wore  around  her  head.  She  set 
the  candle  down.    I  sat  still  and  looked  at  her. 

"  You  are  there,  May?  "  she  remarked. 

*'  Yes,"  was  my  subdued  response. 
;    "Where  have  you  been  all  evening?" 

**  It  does  not  matter  to  anyone." 

"Indeed  it  does.  You  were  talking  to  Sir  Peter  Le 
Marchant.    I  saw  you  meet  him  from  my  bedroom  window." 

*' Did  you?" 

"  Did  he  propose  to  you?  "  she  inquired  with  a  composure 
which  seemed  to  me  frightful.  "  Worldly,"  I  thought  was  a 
weak  word  to  apply  to  her,  and  I  was  suffering  acutely. 

"  He  did." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  would  be  a  little  difficult  to  accept 
him?" 

"  I  did  not  accept  him." 

"What?"  she  inquired,  as  if  she  had  not  quito  caught 
what  I  said. 

"  I  refused  him,"  said  I,  slightly  raising  my  voice. 

"  What  are  you  telling  me?  " 

"The  truth." 

"Sir  Peter  has  fif " 

"  Don't  mention  Sir  Pet<3r  to  me  again,"  said  I  nervously, 
and  feeling  as  if  my  heart  would  break.  I  had  never  quar- 
reled with  Adelaide  before.  No  reconciliation  afterward 
could  ever  make  up  for  the  anguish  which  I  was  going 
through  now. 


20  THE  FIRST  VlOim. 

*'  Just  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  bending  over  me,  Her  lipa 
drawn  together.  "I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  you  before. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  given  any  thought  to 
our  position  and  circumstances.  If  not,  it  would  be  as  well 
that  you  should  do  so  now.  Papa  is  fifty-five  years  old,  and 
has  three  hundred  a  year.  In  the  course  of  time  he  will  die, 
and,  as  his  life  is  not  insured,  and  he  has  regularly  spent 
every  penny  of  his  income — naturally,  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  he  hadn't — what  is  to  become  of  us  when  he  is 
dead?" 

"  We  can  work." 

"  Work! "  said  she  with  inexpressible  scorn.  "  Work! 
Pray,  what  can  we  do  in  the  v/ay  of  work?  What  kind  of 
education  have  we  had?  The  village  schoolmistress  could 
make  us  look  very  small  in  the  matter  of  geography  and 
history.  We  have  not  been  trained  to  work;  and  let  me 
tell  you.  May,  unskilled  labor  does  not  pay  in  these  days." 

"I  am  sure  you  can  do  anything,  Adelaide,  and  I  will 
teach  singing.    I  can  sing." 

"  Pooh!  Do  you  suppose  that  because  you  can  take  C  in 
alt  you  are  competent  to  teach  singing?  You  don't  know 
how  to  sing  yourself  yet.  Your  face  is  your  fortune.  So  is 
mine  my  fortune.  So  is  Stella's  her  fortune.  You  have 
enjoyed  yourself  all  your  life;  you  have  had  seventeen  years 
of  play  and  amusement,  and  now  you  behave  like  a  baby. 
You  refuse  to  endure  a  little  discomfort,  as  the  price  of 
placing  yourself  and  your  family  forever  out  of  the  reach 
of  trouble  and  trial.  W^hy,  if  you  were  Sir  Peter's  wife  you 
could  do  what  you  liked  with  him.  I  don't  say  anything 
about  myself;  but  oh.  May!  I  am  ashamed  of  you — I  am 
ashamed  of  you!  I  thought  you  had  more  in  you.  Is  it 
possible  that  you  are  nothing  but  a  romp — ^nothing  but  a  vul- 
gar tomboy?     Good  Heaven!     If  the  chance  had  been  mine!  " 

"What  would  you  have  done?"  I  wliispered,  subdued  for 
the  moment,  but  obstinate  in  my  heart  as  ever. 

"  I  am  nobody  now;  no  one  knows  me.  But  if  I  had  had 
the  chance  that  you  have  had  to-night,  in  another  year 
I  would  have  been  known  and  envied  by  half  the  women 
in  England.  Bah!  Circumstances  are  too  disgustit^ — too 
unkind! " 

"  Oh,  Adelaide!  nothing  could  have  made  up  for  being 
tied  to  that  man,"  said  I  in  a  small  voice;  "  and  I  am  not 
ambitious." 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  21. 

"  AmMtious!  You  are  selfish — downriglit,  grossly,  inor- 
Sinately  selfish.  Do  you  suppose  no  one  else  ever  had  to  do 
what  they  did  not  like?  Why  did  you  not  stop  to  think, 
instead  of  rushing  away  from  the  thing  like  some  unreason- 
ing animal?" 

"Adelaide!  Sir  Peter!  To  marry  him?"  I  implored  in 
tears.  "How  could  I?  I  should  die  of  shame  at  the  very 
thought.  Who  could  help  seeing  that  I  had  sold  myself  to 
him?" 

"  And  who  would  think  any  the  worse  of  you?  And  what 
if  they  did?  With  fifteen  thousand  a  year  you  may  defy 
public  opinion." 

"  Oh,  don't!  don't! "  I  cried,  covering  my  face  with  my 
hands.    "  Adelaide,  you  will  break  my  heart!  " 

Burying  my  face  in  the  bed-quilt,  I  sobbed  irrepressibly. 
Adelaide's  apparent  unconsciousness  of,  or  callousness  to, 
the  stabs  she  was  giving  me,  and  the  anguish  they  caused  me, 
almost  distracted  me. 

She  loosed  my  arm,  remarking  with  bitter  vexation: 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  shake  you!  " 

She  left  the  room.  I  was  left  to  my  meditations.  My 
head — my  heart,  too — ached  distractedly;  my  arm  was  sore 
v/here  Adelaide  had  grasped  it;  I  felt  as  if  she  had  taken  my 
mind  by  the  shoulders  and  shaken  it  roughly.  I  fastened 
both  doors  of  my  room,  resolving  that  neither  she  nor  any- 
one else  should  penetrate  to  my  presence  again  that  night. 

What  was  I  to  do?  Where  to  turn?  I  began  now  to 
realize  that  the  Res  domi,  which  had  always  seemed  to  me 
so  abundant  for  all  occasions,  were  really  Res  Augusta,  and 
that  circumstances  might  occur  in  which  they  would  be 
miserably  inadequate. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

•*Zu  Rathe  gehen,  und  vom  Rath  zur  That." 

— Briefe  Beethoven's. 

There  was  surely  not  much  in  Miss  Hallam  to  encourage 
confidences;  yet  within  half  an  hour  of  the  time  of  entering 
her  house  I  had  told  her  all  that  oppressed  my  heart,  and 
had  gained  a  feeling  of  greater  security  than  I  had  yet  felt. 
I  was  sure  that  she  would  befriend  me.  True,  she  did  not 
eay  so.    When  I  told  her  about  Sir  Peter  Le  Marcbivnt's  pro- 


22  ■  THE  VIBST  VIOLm. 

posal  to  me,  about  Adelaide's  behavior;  when,  in  halting^ 
and  stammering  tones,  and  interrupted  by  tears,  I  confessed 
that  I  had  not  spoken  to  my  father  or  mother  upon  the  sub- 
ject, and  that  I  was  not  quite  sure  of  thetr  approval  of  what 
I  had  done,  she  even  laughed  a  little,  but  not  in  what  could 
be  called  an  amused  manner.  When  I  had  finished  my  tale, 
she  said: 

"If  I  understand  you,  the  case  stands  thus:  You  have 
refused  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  but  you  do  not  feel  at  all 
sure  that  he  will  not  propose  to  you  again.    Is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted. 

"  And  you  dread  and  shrink  from  the  idea  of  a  repetition 
of  this  business?  " 

"  I  feel  as  if  ib  would  kill  me.'* 

"It  would  not  kill  you.  People  are  not  so  easily  killed 
as  all  that;  but  it  is  highly  unfit  that  you  should  be  sub- 
jected to  a  recurrence  of  it.  I  will  think  about  it.  Will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  read  me  a  page  of  this  book?  " 

Much  surprised  at  this  very  abrupt  change  of  the  subject, 
but  not  daring  to  make  any  observation  upon  it,  I  took  the 
book — a  current  number  of  a  maga^ne — and  read  a  page 
to  her. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  she.  *^  Now,  will  you  read  this  letter, 
also  aloud?  " 

She  put  a  letter  in  my  hand,  and  I  read; 

**  *  Dear  Madame:  In  answer  to  your  letter  of  last  week, 
I  write  to  say  that  I  could  find  the  rooms  you  require,  and 
that  by  me  you  will  have  many  good  agreements  which 
would  make  your  stay  in  Germany  pleasanter.  My  house  is 
a  large  one  in  the  Alleestrasse.  Dr.  Mittendorf,  the  oculist, 
lives  not  far  from  here,  and  the  Stadtische  Augenkhnik — 
that  is,  the  eye  hospital — ^is  quite  near.  The  rooms  you  would 
have  are  upstairs — suite  of  salon  and  two  bedrooms,  with 
room  for  your  maid  in  another  part  of  the  house.  I  have 
other  boarders  here  at  the  time,  but  you  would  do  as  you 
pleased  about  mixing  with  them. 

***With  all  highest  esteem, 
*'  *  Your  devoted, 

"*Claea  Steinmann.' ** 

"You  don't  understand  it  all,  I  suppose?"  said  she,  when 
3L  had  finished. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  23 

"  That  lady  writes  from  Elberthal.  You  have  heard  of 
Elberthal  on  the  Khine,  I  presume?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  A  large  town.  There  used  to  be  a  fine  picture 
gallery  there;  but  the  war  between  the " 

"  There,  thank  you!  I  studied  Guy's  geography  myself  in 
my  youth.  I  see  you  know  the  place  I  mean.  There  is  an 
eye  hospital  there,  and  a  celebrated  oculist — Mittendorf.  I 
am  going  there.  I  don't  suppose  it  will  be  of  the  least  use; 
but  I  am  going.  Drowning  men  catch  at  straws.  Well,  what 
else  can  you  do?    You  don't  read  badly." 

"  I  can  sing — not  very  well,  but  I  can  sing." 

"You  can  sing?"  said  she  reflectively.  "Just  go  to  the 
piano  and  let  me  hear  a  specimen.  I  was  once  a  judge  in 
these  matters." 

I  opened  the  piano  and  sung,  as  well  as  I  could,  an  Eng- 
lish version  of  "  Die  Lotus-blume." 

My  performance  was  greeted  with  silence,  which  !Miss 
Hallam  at  length  broke,  remarking: 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  had  much  training? '' 

"  Scarcely  any." 

"  Humph!  Well,  it  is  to  be  had,  even  if  not  in  Skemford. 
Would  you  like  some  lessons?" 

"  I  should  like  a  good  n^any  things  that  I  am  not  likely 
ever  to  have." 

"  At  Elberthal  there  are  all  kinds  of  advantages  with  regard 
to  those  things — music,  and  singing,  and  so  on.  Will  you 
come  there  with  me  as  my  companion?  '^ 

I  heard,  but  did  not  fairly  understand.  My  head  was  in  a 
whirl.  Go  to  Germany  with  Miss  Hallam;  leave  Stemford, 
Sir  Peter,  all  that  had  grown  so  weary  to  me;  see  new  places, 
live  with  new  people;  learn  something!  No,  I  did  not  grasp 
it  in  the  least.    I  made  no  reply,  but  sat  breathlessly  staring. 

"  But  I  shall  expect  you  to  make  yourself  useful  to  me  in 
many  ways,"  proceeded  Miss  Hallam. 

At  this  touch  of  reality  I  began  to  waken  up  again. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hallam,  is  it  really  true?  Do  you  think  they 
will  let  me  go  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  answered  me  yet." 

"About  being  useful?  I  would  do  any  tiling  yoii  like — 
anything  in  the  world." 

"  Do  not  suppose  j'^our  life  will  be  all  roses,  or  you  will  be 
woefully  disappointed.    I  do  not  go  out  at  all;  my  health  13 


24  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

bad — so  is  my  temper,  very  often,  I  am  what  people  who 
never  had  any  trouble  are  fond  of  calling  peculiar.  Still,  if 
you  are  in  earnest,  and  not  merely  sentimentalizing,  you  will 
take  your  courage  in  your  hands  and  come  with  me." 

"  ]\Iiss  Hallam,"  said  I  with  tragic  earnestness,  as  I  took 
her  hand,  "  I  will  come.  I  see  you  half  mistrust  me;  but  if 
I  had  to  go  to  Siberia  to  get  out  of  Sir  Peter's  way,  I  would 
go  gladly  and  stay  there.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  very  clumsy. 
They  say  at  home  that  I  am,  very,  but  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  They  call  you  clumsy  at  home,  do  they?  " 

"  Yes.  My  sisters  are  so  much  cleverer  than  I,  and  can  do 
everything  so  much  better  than  I  can.  I  am  rather  stupid, 
I  know." 

"  Very  well;  if  you  like  to  call  yourself  so,  do.  It  is  de- 
cided that  you  come  with  me.  I  will  see  your  father  about 
it  to-morrow.  I  always  get  my  own  way  when  I  wish  it.  I 
will  leave  in  about  a  week." 

I  sat  with  clasped  hands,  my  heart  so  full  that  I  could  not 
speak.  Sadness  and  gladness  struggled  hard  witliin  me.  The 
idea  of  getting  away  from  Skemford  was  almost  too  delight- 
ful; the  remembrance  of  Adelaide  made  my  heart  ache. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Ade  nun  ibr  Berge,  ihr  vaterllch  Haus  I 
Es  treibt  in  die  Ferae  mich  maclitig  liinaus." 

—  Volkslied. 

Consent  was  given.  Sir  Peter  was  not  mentioned  to  me 
by  my  parents,  or  by  Adelaide.  The  days  of  that  week  flew 
rapidly  by. 

I  was  almost  afraid  to  mention  my  prospects  to  Adelaide. 
I  feared  she  would  resent  my  good  fortune  in  going  abroad, 
and  that  her  anger  at  having  spoiled  those  other  prospects 
would  remain  unabated.  Moreover,  a  deeper  feeling  sepa- 
rated me  from  her  now — the  knowledge  that  there  lay  a 
great  gulf  of  feeling,  sentiment,  opinion,  between  us,  which 
nothing  could  bridge  over  or  do  away  with.  Qiilwardly  we 
might  be  amiable  and  friendly  to  each  other,  but  confidence, 
union,  was  fled  over.  Once  again  in  the  future  I  was  destined, 
when  our  respective  principles  had  been  tried  to  the  utmost, 
to  have  her  confidence — to  see  her  heart  of  hearts;  but  for 
the  present   we   were   effectually   divided.    I  had  mortally 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  25 

offended  her,  and  it  was  not  a  case  in  which  I  conld  with 
decency  even  humble  myself  to  her.  Once,  however,  she 
mentioned  the  future. 

When  the  day  of  our  departure  had  been  fixed,  and  was 
only  two  days  distant;  when  I  was  breathless  with  hurried 
repairing  of  old  clothes,  and  the  equally  hurried  laying  in  of 
a  small  stock  of  new  ones;  while  I  was  contemplating  with 
awe  the  prospect  of  a  first  journey  to  London,  to  Ostend,  to 
Brussels,  she  said  to  me,  as  I  sat  feverishly  hemming  a  frill: 

"  So  you  are  going  to  Germany?  " 

«  Yes,  Adelaide." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  there?  " 

"  My  duty,  I  hope." 

"  Charity,  my  dear,  and  duty,  too,  begins  at  home.  I 
should  say  you  were  going  away  leaving  your  duty  undone." 

I  was  silent,  and  she  went  on: 

*^I  suppose  you  wish  to  go  abroad.  May?" 

"  You  know  I  have  always  wished  to  go."  '^ 

"  So  do  I." 

"  I  wish  you  were  going,  too,"  said  I  timidly. 

"  Thank  you.  My  views  upon  the  subject  are  quite  difiei- 
ent.  When  I  go  abroad  I  shall  go  in  a  different  capacity  to 
that  you  are  going  to  assume.  I  jvill  let  you  know  all  about 
it  in  due  time." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I  almost  inaudibly,  having  a  vague  idea 
as  to  what  she  meant,  but  determined  not  to  speak  about  it. 

The  following  day  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  first  act  of 
the  play — call  it  drama,  comedy,  tragedy,  what  you  will — 
■which  was  to  be  played  in  my  absence.  I  had  been  up  the 
village  to  the  post  office,  and  was  returning,  when  I  saw 
advancing  toward  me  two  figures  which  I  had  cause  to  re- 
member— my  sister's  queenly  height,  her  white  hat  over  her 
eyes,  and  her  sunshade  in  her  hand,  and  beside  her  the  pale 
face,  with  its  ragged  eyebrows  and  hateful  sneer,  of  Sir  Peter 
Le  March  ant. 

Adelaide,  not  at  all  embarrassed  by  his  company,  was 
smiling  slightly,  and  her  eyes  with  drooped  hds  glanced 
downward  toward  the  baronet.  I  shrunk  into  a  cottage  to 
avoid  them  as  they  came  past,  and  waited.  Adelaide  was 
saying: 

"  Proud — yes,  I  am  proud,  I  suppose.  Too  proud,  at  least, 
to * 


26'^  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

There!  Out  of  Hearing.  They  Had  passed.  I  Hiinied  out 
of  the  cottage  and  home. 

The  next  day;  I  met  Miss  Hallam  and  her  maid  (we  three 
traveled  alone)  at  the  station,  and  soon  we  were  whirling 
smoothly  along  our  southward  way — ^to  York  first,  then  to 
London^  and  so  out  into,  the  Forldjt  thought  i. 


BOOK  IL 
LIFE, 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  Ein  Held  aus  der  Fremde,  gar  kahn.** 

We  had  left  Brussels  and  Belgium  behind,  had  departed 
from  the  regions  of  Chemins  de  fer,  and  entered  those  of 
Eisenhahnen.  We  were  at  Cologne,  where  we  had  to  change 
and  wait  half  an  hour  before  we  could  go  on  to  Elberthal. 
We  sat  in  the  wartesaal,  and  I  had  committed  to  my  charge 
two  bundles,  with  strict  injunctions  not  to  lose  them. 

Then  the  doors  were  opened,  and  the  people  made  a  mad 
rush  to  a  train  standing  somewhere  in  the  dim  distance. 
Merrick,  Miss  Hallam's  maid,  had  to  give  her  whole  atten- 
tion to  her  mistress.  I  followed  close  in  their  wake,  until, 
as  we  had  almost  come  to  the  train,  I  cast  my  eyes  downward, 
and  perceived  that  there  was  missing  from  my  arm  a  gray 
shawl  of  Miss  Hallam's  which  had  been  committed  to  my 
charge,  and  upon  which  she  set  a  fidgety  kind  of  v«lue,  as 
being  particularly  warm  or  particularly  soft. 

Dismayed,  I  neither  hesitated  nor  thought,  but  turned, 
fought  my  way  through  the  throng  of  people  to  the  waiting 
room  again,  hunted  every  corner,  but  in  vain,  for  the  shawl. 
Either  it  was  completely  lost,  or  Merrick  had,  without  my 
observing  it,  taken  it  under  her  own  protection.  It  was  not 
in  the  waiting  room.  Giving  up  the  search,  I  hurried  to  the 
door;  it  was  fast.  No  one  more,  it  would  seem,  was  to  be  let 
out  that  way;  I  must  go  round,  through  the  passages  into 
the  open  hall  of  the  station,  and  so  on  to  the  platform  again. 
More  easily  said  than  done.  Always,  from  my  earliest  youth 
up,  I  have  had  a  peculiar  fancy  for  losing  myself.  On  tliis 
eventful  day  I  lost  myself.  I  ran  through  the  passages,  came 
into  the  great  open  place  surrounded  on  every  side  by  doors 
leading  to  the  platforms,  offices,  or  booking  offices.    Glanc- 


28  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

ing  hastily  round,  T  selected  the  door  which  appeared  to  my 
imperfectly  developsd  "  locality  "  to  promise  egress  upon  the 
platform,  pushed  it  open,  and,  going  along  a  covered  passage, 
and  through  another  door,  found  myself,  after  the  loss  of  a 
good  five  minutes,  in  a  lofty  deserted  wing  of  the  station, 
gazing  wildly  at  an  empty  platform,  and  feverishly  scanning 
all  the  long  row  of  doors  to  my  right;,  in  a  mad  effort  to  guess 
which  would  take  me  from  this  delightful  terra  incognito 
back  to  my  friends. 

Gepdck-Expedition,  I  read,  and  thought  it  did  not  sound 
promising.  Telegraphs  bureau.  Impossible!  Ausgang. 
There  was  the  magic  word,  and  I,  not  knowing  it,  stared  at 
it  and  was  none  the  wiser  for  its  friendly  sign.  I  heard  a 
hollow  whistle  in  the  distance.  No  doubt  it  was  the  Elber- 
thal  train  going  away,  and  my  heart  sunk  deep,  deep  within 
my  breast.  I  knew  no  German  word.  All  I  could  say  was 
"  Elberthal  ";  and  my  nearest  approach  to  "  first-class  ^'  was 
to  point  to  the  carriage  doors  and  say  "  Ein,"  wliich  might  or 
might  not  be  understood — probably  not,  when  the  universal 
stupidity  of  the  German  railway  official  is  taken  into  consider- 
ation, together  with  his  chronic  state  of  gratuitous  suspicion 
that  a  bad  motive  lurks  under  every  question  which  is  put  to 
him.  I  heard  a  subdued  bustle  coming  from  the  right  hand 
in  the  distance,  and  I  ran  hastily  to  the  other  end  of  the  great 
empty  place,  seeing,  as  I  thought,  an  opening.  Vain  delusion! 
Deceptive  dream  of  the  fancy!  There  was  a  glass  window, 
through  which  I  looked,  and  saw  a  street  thronged  with  pas- 
sengers and  vehicles.  I  hurried  back  again  to  find  my  way 
to  the  entrance  of  the  station,  and  there  try  another  door, 
when  I  heard  a  bell  ring  violently — a  loud  groaning  and 
shrieking,  and  then  the  sound,  as  it  were,  of  a  train  depart- 
ing. A  porter — at  least  a  person  in  uniform — appeared  in  a 
doorway.  How  I  rushed  up  to  him!  How  I  seized  his  arm, 
and,  dropping  my  ru2:s,  gesticulated  excitedly,  and  panted 
forth  the  word  "  Elber'thal!  " 

"Elberthal?"  said  he  in  a  guttural  bass;  "WoTlt  Ihr  nacli 
Elberthal,  FrdleincJien  ?  " 

There  was  an  impudent  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  it  were 
impertinence  trying  to  get  the  better  of  beer;  and  I  reiterated 
"Elberthal,"  growing  very  red,  and  cursing  all  foreign 
speeches  by  my  gods — a  process  often  employed,  I  believe, 
by  cleverer  persons  than  I,  with  reference  to  things  they  do 
not  understand. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  29 

"  Schon  fort,  Frdulein,"  he  continued,  with  a  grin. 

"But  where— what— Elberthal!  " 

He  was  about  to  make  some  further  reply,  when,  turning, 
he  seemed  to  see  someone,  and  assumed  a  more  respectful  de- 
meanor. I,  too,  turned,  and  saw  at  some  httle  distance  from 
lis  a  gentleman  sauntering  along,  who,  though  coming  toward 
us,  did  not  seem  to  observe  us.  Would  he  understand  me  if  I 
spoke  to  him?  Desperate  as  I  was,  I  felt  some  timidity  about 
trying  it.  Never  had  I  felt  so  miserable,  so  helpless,  so  utterly 
ashamed  as  I  did  then.  My  lips  trembled  as  the  newcomer 
drew  nearer,  and  the  porter,  taking  the  opportunity  of  quit- 
ting a  scene  which  began  to  bore  him,  slipped  away.  I  was 
left  alone  on  the  platform,  nervously  snatching  short  glances 
at  the  person  slowly,  very  slowly,  approaching  me.  He  did 
not  look  up  as  if  he  beheld  me  or  in  any  way  remarked  my 
presence.  His  eyes  were  bent  toward  the  ground;  his  fingers 
drummed  a  tune  upon  liis  chest.  As  he  approached,  I  heard 
that  he  was  humming  something.  I  even  heard  the  air;  it 
has  been  impressed  upon  my  memory  firmly  enough  since, 
though  I  did  not  know  it  then — the  air  of  the  march  from 
Eaff's  Fifth  Symphonie,  the  "Lenore."  I  heard  the  tune 
softly  hummed  in  a  mellow  voice  as,  with  face  burning  and 
glowing,  I  placed  myself  before  him.  Then  he  looked  sud- 
denly up,  as  if  startled,  fixed  upon  me  a  pair  of  eyes  which 
gave  me  a  kind  of  shock,  so  keen,  so  commanding  were  they, 
with  a  kind  of  tameless  freedom  in  their  glance  such  as  I  had 
never  seen  before. 

Arrested  (no  doubt  by  my  wild  and  excited  appearance), 
he  stood  still  and  looked  at  me,  and  as  he  looked  a  slight  smile 
began  to  dawn  upon  his  lips.  Not  an  Englishman.  I  should 
have  known  him  for  an  outlander  anywhere.  I  remarked  no 
details  of  his  appearance;  only  that  he  was  tall,  and  had,  as  it 
seemed  to  mo,  a  commanding  bearing.  I  stood  hesitating  and 
blushing.  (To  this  very  day  the  blood  comes  to  my  face  as  I 
think  of  my  agony  of  blushes  in  that  immemorial  moment.) 
I  saw  a  handsome — a  very  handsome — face,  quite  different 
from  any  I  had  ever  seen  before:  the  startling  eyes  before 
spoken  of,  and  which  surveyed  me  with  a  look  so  keen,  so 
cool,  and  so  bright,  which  seemed  to  penetrate  through  and 
through  me;  while  a  slight  smile  curled  the  light  mustache 
upward — a  general  aspect  which  gave  me  the  impression  that 
he  was  not  only  a  personage,  but  a  very  great  personage,  with 
a  flavor  of  something  else  permeating  it  all  which  puzzled  me 


so  THE  FIRST  YIOLIlSf. 

and  made  me  feel  embarrassed  as  to  how  to  address  him. 
"While  I  stood  inanely  trying  to  gather  my  senses  together, 
he  took  off  the  little  cloth  cap  he  wore,  and,  bowing,  asked: 

"  Mien  Frdulein,  in  what  way  can  I  assist  you?  " 

His  English  was  excellent — his  bow  like  nothing  I  had  seen 
before.  Convinced  that  I  had  met  a  genuine,  thorough,  fine 
gentleman  (in  which  I  was  right  for  one*  in  my  life),  I 
began: 

"  I  have  lost  my  way,"  and  my  voice  trembled  in  spite  of  all 
my  efforts  to  steady  it.  "  In  a  crowd  I  lost  my  friends,  and — 
I  was  going  to  Elberthal,  and  I  turned  the  wro»ag  way — 
and " 

"Have  come  to  destruction,  nicM  wahr?"  He  looked  at 
his  watch,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders* 
*'  The  Elberthal  train  is  already  away." 

"  Gone! "  I  dropped  my  rugs  and  began  a  tremulous 
search  for  my  pocket-handkerchief.    "What  shall  I  do?" 

"  There  is  another — let  me  see — in  one  hour — two — will 
'mal  nachsehen.  Will  you  come  with  me,  Fraulein,  and  we 
will  see  about  the  trains?  " 

"  If  you  would  show  me  the  platform,"  said  I.  "  Perhaps 
some  of  them  may  still  be  there.  Oh,  what  will  they  think 
of  me! " 

"  We  must  go  to  the  wartesaal,"  said  he.  "  Then  you  can 
look  out  and  see  if  you  see  any  of  them." 

I  had  no  choice  but  to  comply. 

My  benefactor  picked  up  my  two  bundles,  and,  in  spite  of 
my  expostulations,  carried  them  with  him.  He  took  me 
through  the  door  inscribed  Ausgang,  and  the  whole  thing 
seemed  so  extremely  simple  now,  that  my  astonishment  as 
to  how  I  could  have  lost  myself  increased  every  moment.  He 
went  before  me  to  the  waiting  room,  put  my  bundles  upon 
one  of  the  sofas,  and  we  went  to  the  door.  The  platform  was 
almost  as  empty  as  the  one  we  had  left. 

I  looked  round,  and,  though  it  was  only  what  I  had  ex- 
pected, my  face  fell  when  I  saw  how  utterly  and  entirely  my 
party  had  disappeared. 

"  You  see  them  not?  "  he  inquired. 

"  No — they  are  gone,"  said  I,  turning  away  from  the  win- 
dow, and  choking  down  a  sob,  not  very  effectually.  Turning 
my  damp  and  sorrowful  eyes  to  my  companion,  I  found  that 
he  was  still  smiling  to  himself,  as  if  quietly  amused  at  the 
whole  adventure. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  31 

"I  will  go  and  see  what  time  the  trains  go  to  ElberthaL 
Suppose  you  sit  down — yes?  " 

Passively  obeying,  I  sat  down  and  turned  my  situation 
over  in  my  mind,  in  which  kind  of  agreeable  mental  leger- 
demain I  was  still  occupied  when  he  returned. 

"  It  is  now  half-past  three,  and  there  is  a  train  to  Elber- 
thal  at  seven." 

^' Seven!" 
i     "  Seven — a  very  pleasant  time  to  travel,  nicM  wahr?    Then 
it  is  still  quite  light." 

"  So  long!  Three  hours  and  a  half,"  I  murmured  deject- 
edly, and  bit  my  lips  and  hung  my  head.  Then  I  said:  "  I 
am  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  If  I  might  ask  you  a 
favor?" 

"  Bitte,  mcin  Frdulein!" 

"  If  you  could  show  me  exactly  where  the  train  starts  from, 
and — could  I  get  a  ticket  now,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not — so  long  before,"  he  answered,  twisting 
his  mustache,  as  I  could  not  help  seeing,  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  with  stoic  calmness,  "  I  sha.ll  never  get  to 
Elberthal — never,  for  I  don't  know  a  word  of  German — not 
one."  I  sat  more  firmly  down  upon  the  sofa,  and  tried  to 
contemplate  the  future  with  fortitude. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  to  say,"  said  he,  removing  with  great 
deliberation  the  bundles  which  divided  us,  and  sitting  down 
beside  me.  He  leaned  his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and  looked  at 
me  ever,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  amusement,  tempered 
with  kindness,  and  I  felt  like  a  very  little  girl  indeed. 

"  You  are  exceedingly  good,"  I  replied,  ^'  but  it  would  be 
of  no  use.  I  am  so  frightened  of  those  men  in  blue  coats  and 
big  mustaches.  I  should  not  be  able  to  say  a  word  to  any 
of  them." 

"  German  is  sometimes  not  unlike  English." 

"  It  is  like  nothing  to  me,  except  a  great  mystery." 

"  Billet  is  '  ticket,' "  said  he  persuasively. 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  with  a  gleam  of  hope.  "  Perhaps  I 
could  remember  that.    Billet,''  I  repeated  reflectively. 

"  Bil/e^,"  he  amended;  "  not  BilViV' 

"  Bill-yet— Bill-ye^,"  I  repeated. 

"  And  '  to  Elberthal '  may  be  said  in  one  word,  *  Elberthal.' 
*  Bin  billet — Blbcrthal — erster  Klasse.'  " 

"  Bin  Bill-yet,''  I  repeated  automatically,  for  my  thoughts 
were  dwelling  more  upon  the  charming  quandary  in  which  i 


8S  THE  FIRST  VlOZm. 

found  myself  than  upon  his  half-good-natured,  half-mocking 
instructions:  "  Ein  Bill-yet,  firste — erste — ^it  is  of  no  use.  I 
can't  say  it.  But  " — here  a  brilhant  idea  struck  me — "  if  you 
could  write  it  out  for  me  on  a  paper,  and  then  I  could  give  it 
to  the  man — he  would  surely  know  what  it  meant," 

"  A  very  interesting  idea,  but  a  viva  voce  interview  is  so 
much  better." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  takes  to  walk  to  Elberthal!  "  I  sug- 
gested darkly. 

"  Oh,  a  mere  trifle  of  a  walk.  You  might  do  it  in  four  or 
five  hours,  I  dare  say." 

I  bit  my  lips,  trying  not  to  cry. 

"  Perhaps  we  might  make  some  other  arrangement,"  he 
remarked.     "  I  am  going  to  Elberthal,  too." 

"  You!  Thank  Heaven!"  was  my  first  remark.  Then  as 
a  doubt  came  over  me:  "  Then  why — why " 

Here  I  stuck  fast,  unable  to  ask  why  he  had  said  so  many 
tormenting  things  to  me,  pretended  to  teach  me  German 
phrases,  and  so  on.  The  words  would  not  come  out.  Mean- 
while he,  without  apparently  feeUng  it  necessary  to  explain 
himself  upon  these  points,  went  on: 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  at  a  probe  "  (not  having  the  faintest 
idea  as  to  what  a  probe  might  be,  and  not  liking  to  ask,  I 
held  my  peace  and  bowed  assentingly).  He  went  on,  "  And 
I  was  delayed  a  little.  I  had  intended  to  go  by  the  train  you 
have  lost,  so  if  you  are  not  afraid  to  trust  yourself  to  my 
care  we  can  travel  together." 

"  You — you  are  very  kind." 
>    "  Then  you  are  not  afraid?  " 

"I — oh,  no!  I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  mean  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  very  nice." 

Feeling  that  my  social  powers  were  as  yet  in  a  very  unde- 
veloped condition,  I  subsided  into  silence,  as  he  went  on: 

"I  hope  your  friends  will  not  be  very  uneasy?" 

"Oh,  dear  no!"  I  assured  him,  with  a  pious  conviction 
that  I  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"  We  shall  arrive  at  Elberthal  about  half-past  eight." 

I  scarcely  heard.  I  plunged  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  and 
found — a  hideous  conviction  crossed  my  mind — I  had  no 
money.  I  had,  until  this  moment,  totally  forgotten  having 
given  my  purse  to  Merrick  to  keep;  and  she,  as  pioneer  to  the 
party,  naturally  had  all  our  tickets  under  her  charge.  My 
heart  almost  stopped  beating.    It  was  unheard  of,  horrible. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  33 

tliis  possibility  of  falling  into  the  power  of  a  total,  wtter 
stranger — a  foreigner — a — Heaven  only  knew  what!  En- 
grossed with  this  painful  and  distressing  problem  I  sat  silent, 
and  with  eyes  gloomily  cast  down. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  he  remarked.  "  We  do  not  want 
to  spend  three  hours  and  a  half  in  the  station.  I  want  some 
dinner.  A  four  hours'  probe  is  apt  to  make  one  a  little  hun- 
gry.    Come,  we  will  go  and  have  something  to  eat." 

The  idea  had  evidently  come  to  him  as  a  species  of  inspira- 
tion, and  he  openly  rejoiced  in  it. 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  said  I;  but  I  was,  very.  I  knew  it, 
now  that  the  idea  "  dinner  "  had  made  itself  conspicuous  in 
my  consciousness. 

"Perhaps  you  think  not;  but  you  are,  all  the  same,"  he 
said.  "  Come  with  me^^  Fraulein.  You  have  put  yourself  in 
my  hands;  you  must  do  what  I  tell  you." 

I  followed  him  mechanically  out  of  the  station  and  down 
the  street,  and  I  tried  to  realize  that  instead  of  being  with 
Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick,  my  natural  and  respectable  pro- 
tectors, safely  and  conventionally  plodding  the  slow  way  in 
the  slow  Continental  train  to  the  slow  Continental  town,  I 
was  parading  about  the  streets  of  Koln  with  a  man  of  whose 
very  existence  I  had  half  an  hour  ago  been  ignorant.  I  was 
dependent,  too,  upon  him,  and  him  alone,  for  my  safe  arrival 
at  Elberthal.  And  I  followed  him  unquestioningly,  now  and 
then  telling  myself,  by  way  of  feeble  consolation,  that  he  was 
a  gentleman — he  certainly  was  a  gentleman — and  wishing  now 
and  then,  or  trying  to  wish,  with  my  usual  proper  feeling, 
that  it  had  been  some  nice  old  lady  with  whom  I  had  fallen  in 
— it  would  have  made  the  whole  adventure  blameless,  and, 
comparatively  speaking,  agreeable. 

We  went  along  a  street  and  came  to  a  hotel,  a  large  build- 
ing, into  which  my  conductor  walked,  spoke  to  a  waiter,  and 
we  were  shown  into  a  restaurant,  full  of  round  tables,  and  con- 
taining some  half  dozen  parties  of  people.  I  followed  with 
stony  resignation.  It  was  the  severest  trial  of  all,  this  com- 
ing to  a  hotel  alone  with  a  gentleman  in  broad  daylight.  I 
caught  sight  of  a  reflection  in  a  mirror  of  a  tall,  pale  girl,  with 
heavy,  tumbled  auburn  hair,  a  brown  hat  which  suited  her, 
and  a  severely  simple  traveling  dress.  I  did  not  realize  until 
I  had  gone  past  that  it  was  my  own  reflection  which  I  had 
seen. 

"  Suppose  we  sit  here,"  said  he,  going  to  a  table  in  a  com- 


«4  THE  FIEST  VIOLIN. 

paratively  secluded  window  recess,  partially  overhung  with 
curtains. 

"  How  very  kind  and  considerate  of  him! "  thought  I. 

"  Would  you  rather  have  wine  or  coffee,  Fraulein?  " 

Pulled  up  from  the  impulse  to  satisfy  my  really  keen  hunger 
by  the  recollection  of  my  *'  lack  of  gold/'  I  answered  hastily: 

"  Nothing,  thank  you — really  nothing." 

"0  dock!  You  must  have  something,"  said  he,  smiling. 
*'  I  will  order  something.     Don't  trouhle  about  it." 

"  Don't  order  anything  for  me,"  said  I,  my  cheeks  burning. 
**I  shall  not  eat  anything." 

"  If  you  do  not  eat,  you  will  be  ill.  Eemember,  we  do  not 
get  to  Elberthal  before  eight,"  said  he.  "  Is  it  perhaps  dis- 
agreeable to  you  to  eat  in  the  saal?  If  you  hke  we  can  have 
a  private  room.'* 

"  It  is  not  that  at  all,"  I  replied;  and  seeing  that  he  looked 
surprised,  I  blurted  out  the  truth.  "1  have  no  money.  I 
gave  my  purse  to  Miss  Hallam's  maid  to  keep,  and  she  has 
taken  it  with  her." 

With  a  laugh,  in  which,  infectious  though  it  was,  I  was 
too  wretched  to  join: 

"  Is  that  all?    Kellner!  "  cried  he. 

An  obsequious  waiter  came  up,  smiled  sweetly  and  mean- 
ingly at  us,  received  some  orders  from  my  companion,  and 
disappeared. 

He  seated  himself  beside  me  at  the  little  round  table. 

"  He  will  bring  something  at  once,"  said  he,  smiling. 

I  sat  still.  I  was  not  happy,  and  yet  I  could  not  feel  all  the 
xmhappiness  which  I  considered  appropriate  to  the  circum- 
stances. 

My  companion  took  up  a  Kolnische  Zeitung,  and  glanced 
over  the  advertisements,  while  I  looked  a  little  stealthily  at 
him,  and  for  the  first  time  took  in  more  exactly  what  he  was 
like,  and  grew  more  puzzled  with  him  each  moment.  As  he 
leaned  upon  the  table,  one  shght,  long,  brown  hand  propping 
his  head,  and  lost  in  the  thick,  fine,  brown  hair  which  waved 
in  large,  ample  waves  over  his  head,  there  was  an  indescribable 
grace,  ease,  and  negligent  beauty  in  the  attitude.  Move  as 
he  would,  let  him  assume  any  possible  or  impossible  attitude, 
there  was  still  the  same  grace,  half  careless,  yet  very  dignified 
in  the  position  he  took. 

All  his  lines  were  lines  of  beauty,  but  beauty  which  had 
power  and  much  masculine  strength;  nowhere  did  it  degener- 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  35 

ate  into  flaccidity,  nowhere  lose  strength  in  grace.  His  hair 
was  long,  and  I  wondered  at  it.  My  small  experience  in  our 
delightful  home  and  village  circle  had  not  acquainted  me  with 
that  flowing  style;  the  young  men  of  my  acquaintance  cropped 
their  hair  close  to  the  scalp,  and  called  it  the  modern  style  of 
hair-dressing.  It  had  always  looked  to  me  more  like  hair- 
undressing.  This  hair  fell  in  a  heavy  wave  over  his  forehead, 
and  he  had  the  habit  common  to  people  whose  hair  does  so, 
of  lifting  his  head  suddenly  and  shaking  back  the  offending 
lock.  His  forehead  was  broad,  open,  pleasant,  yet  grave. 
Eyes,  as  I  had  seen,  very  dark,  and  with  lashes  and  brows 
which  enhanced  the  contrast  to  a  complexion  at  once  fair  and 
pale.  A  hght  mustache,  curving  almost  straight  across  the 
face,  gave  a  smiling  expression  to  lips  which  were  otherwise 
grave,  calm,  almost  sad.  In  fact,  looking  nearer,  I  thought 
he  did  look  sad;  and  though  when  he  looked  at  me  his 
eyes  were  so  piercing,  yet  in  repose  they  had  a  certain 
distant,  abstracted  expression  not  far  removed  from  absolute 
mournfulness.  Broad-shouldered,  long-armed,  with  a  phy- 
sique in  every  respect  splendid,  he  was  yet  very  distinctly 
removed  from  the  mere  handsome  animal  which,  I  believe, 
enjoys  a  distinguished  popularity  in  the  latter-day  romance. 

Now,  as  his  eyes  were  cast  upon  the  paper,  I  perceived 
lines  upon  his  forehead,  signs  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  tell- 
ing of  a  firm,  not  to  say  imperious,  disposition;  a  certain  curve 
of  the  hps,  and  of  the  full,  yet  delicate  nostril,  told  of  pride 
both  strong  and  high.  He  was  older  than  I  had  thought,  his 
face  sparer;  there  were  certain  hollows  in  the  cheeks,  two  lines 
between  the  eyebrows,  a  sharpness  or  rather  somewhat  worn 
appearance  of  the  features,  which  told  of  a  mental  Ufe,  keen 
and  consuming.  Altogether,  an  older,  more  intellectual, 
more  imposing  face  than  I  had  at  first  thought;  less  that 
of  a  young  and  handsome  man,  more  that  of  a  thinker  and 
student.  Lastly,  a  cool  ease,  deliberation,  and  leisureliness 
about  all  he  said  and  did,  hinted  at  his  being  a  person  in 
authority,  accustomed  to  give  orders  and  see  them  obeyed 
without  question.  I  decided  that  he  was,  in  our  graceful 
home  phrase,  "  master  in  his  own  house." 

His  clothing  was  unremarkable — gray  summer  clothes, 
Buch  as  any  gentleman  or  any  shopkeeper  might  wear;  only, 
in  scanning  him,  no  thought  of  shopkeeper  came  into  my 
mind.  His  cap  lay  upon  the  table  beside  us,  one  of  the  little 
gray  Studantenmiitzen  with  which  Elberthal  sooa  made  me 


36  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

familiar,  but  which  struck  me  then  as  odd  and  outlandish.  I 
grew  everj^  moment  more  interested  in  my  scrutiny  of  this, 
to  me,  fascinating  and  remarkable  face,  and  had  forgotten  to 
try  to  look  as  if  I  were  not  looking,  when  he  looked  up  sud- 
denly, without  warning,  with  those  bright,  formidable  eyes, 
which  had  already  made  me  feel  somewhat  shy  as  I  caught 
them  fixed  upon  me. 

"  Nun,  have  you  decided?  "  he  asked,  with  a  humorous  look 
in  his  eyes,  which  he  was  too  polite  to  allow  to  develop  itself 
into  a  smile. 

"  I — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon! " 

"  You  do  not  want  to,"  he  answered  in  imperfect  idiom. 
"  But  have  you  decided?  " 

"  Decided  what?  " 

"  Whether  I  am  to  be  trusted?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  thinking  about  that,"  I  said  uncomfort- 
ably, when  to  my  relief  the  appearance  of  the  waiter  with 
preparations  for  a  meal  saved  me  further  reply. 

"What  shall  we  call  this  meal?"  he  asked,  as  the  waiter 
disappeared  to  bring  the  repast  to  the  table.  "  It  is  too  late 
for  the  Mittagessen,  and  too  early  for  the  Abendbrod.  Can 
you  suggest  a  name?" 

."  At  home  it  would  be  just  the  time  for  afternoon  tea." 

"Ah,  yes!     Your  English  afternoon  tea  is  very "  He 

stopped  suddenly. 

"  Have  you  been  in  England?  " 

"  This  is  just  the  time  at  wliich  we  drink  our  afternoon 
coffee  in  Germany,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  his  impene- 
trably bright  eyes,  just  as  if  he  had  never  heard  me.     "  When 

the  ladies  all  meet  together  to  talk  scan 0,  heliute! 

What  am  I  saying? — to  consult  seriously  upon  important 
topics,  you  know.  There  are  some  low-minded  persons  who 
call  the  whole  ceremony  a  Klatsch— Kaffeeklatsch.  I  am  sure 
you  and  I  shall  talk  seriously  upon  important  subjects,  so  sup- 
pose we  call  this  our  Kaffeeklatsch,  although  we  have  no 
coffee  to  it." 

"  Oh,  yes!  if  you  like  it." 

He  put  a  piece  of  cutlet  upon  my  plate,  and  poured  yellow 
wine  into  my  glass.  Endeavoring  to  conduct  myself  with  the 
dignity  of  a  grown-up  person  and  to  show  that  I  did  know 
something,  I  inquired  if  the  wine  were  hock. 

He  smiled.  "  It  is  not  Hochheimer — not  Eheinwein  at 
all — he — no,  it,  you  say — it  is  Lloselle  wine — *  Doctoie 


i  }> 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  37 

"Doctor?" 

"  Doctorberger;  I  do  not  know  why  so  called.  And  a  very 
good  fellow,  too — so  say  all  his  friends,  of  whom  I  am  one. 
Try  him." 

I  complied  with  the  admonition,  and  was  able  to  say  that  I 
liked  Doctorberger.  We  ate  and  drank  in  silence  for  some 
little  time,  and  I  found  that  I  was  very  hungry.  I  also  found 
that  I  could  not  conjure  up  any  real  feeling  of  discomfort  or 
uneasiness,  and  that  the  prospective  scolding  from  IVIiss 
Hallam  had  no  terrors  in  it  for  me.  Never  had  I  felt  so 
serene  in  mind,  more  at  ease  in  every  way,  than  now.  I  felt 
that  this  was  wrong — bohemian,  irregular,  and  not  respect- 
able— and  tried  to  get  up  a  little  unhappiness  about  some- 
thing.   The  only  thing  that  I  could  think  of  was: 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  taking  up  your  time.  Perhaps  you  had 
some  business  which  you  were  going  to  when  you  met  me." 

"  My  business,  when  I  met  you,  was  to  catch  the  train  to 
Elberthal,  which  had  already  gone,  as  you  know.  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  fulfill  my  engagements  for  to-night,  so  it  really 
does  not  matter.     I  am  enjoying  myself  very  much." 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  did  meet  you,"  said  I,  growing  more  re- 
assured as  I  found  that  my  companion,  though  exceedingly 
polite  and  attentive  to  me,  did  not  ask  a  question  as  to  my 
business,  my  travehng  companions,  my  intended  stay  or 
object  in  Elberthal — that  he  behaved  as  a  perfect  gentleman 
— one  who  is  a  gentleman  throughout,  in  thought  as  well  as 
in  deed.  He  did  not  even  ask  me  how  it  was  that  my  friends 
had  not  waited  a  little  for  me,  though  he  must  have  wondered 
why  two  people  left  a  young  girl,  moneyless  and  ignorant,  to 
find  her  way  after  them  as  well  as  she  could.  He  took  me  as 
he  found  me,  and  treated  me  as  if  I  had  been  the  most  dis- 
tinguished and  important  of  persons.  But  at  my  last  remark 
he  said,  with  the  same  odd  smile  which  took  me  by  surprise 
every  time  I  saw  it: 

"  The  pleasure  is  certainly  not  all  on  your  side,  mein  Frdu- 
leiii.  I  suppose  from  that  you  have  decided  that  I  am  to  be 
trusted?" 

I  stammered  out  som.ething  to  the  effect  that  "  I  should  be 

very  ungrateful  were  I  not  satisfied  with — with  such  a " 

I  stopped,  looking  at  him  in  some  confusion.  I  saw  a  sudden 
look  flash  into  his  eyes  and  over  his  face.  It  was  gone  again 
in  a  moment — so  fleeting  that  I  had  scarce  time  to  mark  it, 
but  it  opened  up  a  crowd  of  strange  new  impressions  to  me. 


38  THE  FIRST  YIOLUr. 

and  while  I  could  no  more  have  said  what  it  was  like  the  mo- 
ment it  was  gone,  yet  it  left  two  desires  almost  equally  strong 
in  me — I  wished  in  one  and  the  same  moment  that  I  had,  for 
my  own  peace  of  mind,  never  seen  him — and  that  I  might 
never  lose  sight  of  him  again;  to  fly  from  that  look,  to  remain 
and  encounter  it.  The  tell-tale  mirror  in  the  corner  caught 
my  eye.  At  home  they  used  sometimes  to  call  me,  partly  in 
mockery,  partly  in  earnest,  "Bonny  May."  The  sobriquet 
had  hitherto  been  a  mere  shadow,  a  meaningless  thing,  to  me. 
I  liked  to  hear  it,  but  had  never  paused  to  consider  whether 
it  were  appropriate  or  not.  In  my  brief  intercourse  with  my 
venerable  suitor.  Sir  Peter,  I  had  come  a  little  nearer  to  being 
actively  aware  that  I  was  good  looking,  only  to  anathema- 
tize the  fact.  Now,  catching  sight  of  my  reflection  in  the 
mirror,  I  wondered  eagerly  whether  I  really  were  fair,  and 
wished  I  had  some  higher  authority  to  think  so  than  the 
casual  jokes  of  my  sisters.  It  did  not  add  to  my  presence  of 
mind  to  find  that  my  involuntary  glance  to  the  mirror  had 
been  intercepted — perhaps  even  my  motive  guessed  at — he 
appeared  to  have  a  frightfully  keen  instinct. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Dom?  '^  was  all  he  said;  but  it  seemed 
somehow  to  give  a  point  to  what  had  passed. 

"  The  Dom— what  is  the  Dom? '' 

"  The  Kolner  Dom;  the  cathedral." 

*'  Oh,  no!  Oh,  should  we  have  time  to  see  it?  "  I  exclaimed. 
"^How  I  should  like  it! " 

"  Certainly.     It  is  close  at  hand.     Suppose  we  go  now." 

Gladly  I  rose,  as  he  did.  One  of  my  most  ardent  desires 
was  about  to  be  fulfilled — not  so  properly  and  correctly  as 
might  have  been  desired,  but — ^yes,  certainly  more  pleasantly 
than  under  the  escort  of  Miss  Hallam,  grumbling  at  every 
groschen  she  had  to  unearth  in  payment. 

Before  we  could  leave  our  seclusion  there  came  up  to  us  a 
young  man  who  had  looked  at  us  through  the  door  and 
paused.  I  had  seen  him;  and  had  seen  how  he  had  said  some- 
thing to  a  companion,  and  how  the  companion  shook  his  head 
dissentingly.  The  first  speaker  came  up  to  us,  eyed  me  with 
a  look  of  curiosity,  and,  turning  to  my  protector  with  a 
benevolent  smile,  said: 

"  Eugen  Courvoisier!    'Also  Jiaite  dock  Recht!  " 

I  caught  the  name.  The  rest  was,  of  course,  lost  npon  me. 
Eugen  Courvoisier?  I  liked  it,  as  I  Hked  him,  and  in  my 
young  enthusiasm  decided  that  it  was  a  very  good  name.    The 


THE  FIRST  YIOLUr.  39 

lie\rcoiner,  who  seemed  as  if  much  pleased  with  some  discov- 
ery, and  entertained  at  tlie  same  time,  addressed  some  ques- 
tions to  Courvoisier,  who  answered  him  tranquilly,  but  in  a 
tone  of  voice  which  was  very  freezing;  and  then  the  other, 
with  a  few  words,  and  an  unbelieving  kind  of  laugh,  said 
something  about  a  schone  Geschichte,  and,  with  another  look 
at  me,  went  out  of  the  coffee  room  again. 

We  went  out  of  the  hotel,  up  the  street  to  the  cathedral. 
It  was  the  iirst  cathedral  I  had  ever  been  in.  The  shock  and 
the  wonder  of  its  grandeur  took  my  breath  away.  When  I 
had  found  courage  to  look  around,  and  up  at  those  awful 
vaults,  the  roofs,  I  could  not  help  crying  a  Httle.  The  vast- 
ness,  coolness,  stillness,  and  splendor  crushed  me — the  great 
solemn  rays  of  sunlight  coming  in  slanting  glory  through  the 
windows — the  huge  height — the  impression  it  gave  of  great- 
ness, and  of  a  religious  devotion  to  which  we  shall  never  again 
attain;  of  pure,  noble  hearts,  and  patient,  skillful  hands,  toil- 
ing, but  in  a  spirit  that  made  the  toil  a  holy  prayer — carry- 
ing out  the  builder's  thought — great  thought  greatly  executed 
— all  was  too  much  for  me,  and  more  so  in  that  while  I  felt  it 
all  I  could  not  analyze  it.  It  was  a  dim,  indefinite  wonder. 
I  tried  stealthily  and  in  shame  to  conceal  my  tears,  looking 
surreptitiously  at  him  in  fear  lest  he  should  be  laughing  at  me 
again.  But  he  was  not.  He  held  his  cap  in  his  hand — was 
looking  with  those  strange,  brilliant  eyes  fixedly  toward  the 
high  altar,  and  there  was  some  expression  upon  his  face  which 
I  could  not  analyze — not  the  expression  of  a  person  for  whom 
such  a  scene  has  grown  or  can  grow  common  by  custom — not 
the  expression  of  a  sight-seer  who  feels  that  he  must  admire; 
not  my  own  first  astonishment.  At  least  he  felt  it — the  whole 
grand  scene,  and  I  instinctively  and  instantly  felt  more  at 
home  with  him  than  I  had  done  before. 

"  Oh!  "  said  I,  at  last,  "  if  one  could  stay  here  forever,  what 
would  one  grow  to?  " 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"You  find  it  beautiful?" 

"It  is  the  first  I  have  seen.  It  is  much  more  than 
beautiful." 

"  The  first  you  have  seen?  Ah,  well,  I  might  have  guessed 
that." 

"Why?  Do  I  look  so  countrified?"  I  inquired,  with  real 
interest,  as  I  let  him  lead  me  to  a  little  side  bench  and  place 
himself  beside  me.    I  asked  in  all  good  faith.    About  him 


40  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

there  seemed  such  a  cosmopohtan  ease  that  I  felt  sure  he 
could  tell  me  correctly  how  I  struck  other  people — ^if  he 
would. 

"  Countrified— what  is  that?  "  i 

"  Oh,  we  say  it  when  people  are  like  me — have  never  seen 
anytliing  but  their  own  little  village,  and  never  had  any  ad- 
ventures, and " 

"  Get  lost  at  railway  stations,  und  so  weiter.  I  don't  know 
enough  of  the  meaning  of  '  countrified '  to  be  able  to  say  if 
you  are  so,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  you — have  not  had  much 
contention  with  the  powers  that  be/' 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  be  stupid  long,"  said  I  comfortably.  "  I 
am  not  going  back  home  again." 

"  So!  "  He  did  not  ask  more,  but  I  saw  that  he  listened, 
and  proceeded  communicatively: 

"Never.  I  have — not  quarreled  with  them  exactly,  but 
Ihad  a  disagreement,  because — because " 

"Because?" 

**They  wanted  me  to — ^I  mean,  an  old  gentleman — ^no,  I 
mean " 

"An  old  gentleman  wanted  you  to  marry  him,  and  you 
would  not,"  said  he  with  an  odd  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  know?  " 

"  I  think,  because  you  told  me.  But  I  will  forget  it  if  you 
wish." 

"  Oh,  no!  It  is  quite  true.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried him." 

"  Ought! "    He  looked  startled. 

"  Yes.  Adelaide — my  eldest  sister — said  so.  But  it  was  no 
use.  I  was  very  unhappy,  and  Miss  Hallam,  who  is  Sir 
Peter's  deadly  enemy — he  is  the  old  gentleman,  you  know — 
was  very  kind  to  me.  She  invited  me  to  come  with  her  to 
Germany,  and  promised  to  let  me  have  singing  lessons." 

"  Singing  lessons?  " 

I  nodded.  "  Yes;  and  then  when  I  know  a  good  deal  more 
about  singing,  I  shall  go  back  again  and  give  lessons.  I  shall 
support  myself,  and  then  no  one  will  have  the  right  to  want 
to  make  me  marry  Sir  Peter." 

"  Du  lieher  Himmel! "  he  ejaculated,  half  to  himself.  "  Are 
you  very  musical,  then?  " 

"  I  can  sing,"  said  I.     "  Only  I  want  some  more  training." 

"  And  you  will  go  back  all  alone  and  try  to  give  lessons?  "' 

**  I  shall  not  only  try,  I  shall  do  it,"  I  corrected  liim. 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLm,  41 

"And  do  you  like  the  prospect?" 

**If  I  can  get  money  to  live  upon,  I  shall  like  it  very 
much.  It  will  be  better  than  living  at  home  and  being 
bothered." 

"  I  VTiW  tell  you  what  you  should  do  before  you  begin  your 
career/'  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  an  expression  half  won- 
dering, half  pitying. 

"  What?    If  you  could  tell  me  anything!  " 

"Preserve  your  voice,  by  all  means,  and  get  as  much 
instruction  as  you  can;  but  change  all  that  waving  hair,  and 
make  it  into  unobjectionable  smooth  bands  of  no  particular 
color.  Get  a  mask  to  wear  over  your  face,  which  is  too 
expressive;  do  something  to  your  eyes  to  alter  them " 

The  expression  then  visible  in  the  said  eyes  seemed  to 
strike  him,  for  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  with  a  slight  laugh, 
said: 

"4c7^,  ivas  rede  icli  fiir  dummes  Zeug!  Excuse  me,  mein 
Frdulein." 

"But,"  I  interrupted  earnestly,  "what  do  you  mean?  Do 
you  think  my  appearance  will  be  a  disadvantage  to  me  ?  " 

Scarcely  had  I  said  the  words  than  I  knew  how  intensely 
stupid  they  were,  how  very  much  they  must  appear  as  if  I 
were  openly  and  impudently  fishing  for  compliments.  How 
grateful  I  felt  when  he  answered,  with  a  grave  directness, 
wliich  had  nothing  but  the  highest  compliment  in  it — that 
of  crediting  me  with  the  right  motives: 

"  Jfei/i  Frdulein,  how  can  I  tell?  It  is  only  that  I  knew 
someone,  rather  older  than  you,  and  very  beautiful,  who  had 
such  a  pursuit.  Her  name  was  Corona  Heidelberger,  and  her 
story  was  a  sad  one." 

"  Tell  it  me,"  I  besought. 

"Well,  no;  I  think  not.  But — sometimes  I  have  a  little 
gift  of  foresight,  and  that  tells  me  that  you  will  not  become 
what  you  at  present  think.  You  will  be  much  happier  and 
more  fortunate." 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  be  nice  to  be  a  great  operatic 
singer?"  I  speculated. 

"  0,  leliiite !  don't  tliink  of  it! "  he  exclaimed,  starting  up 
and  moving  restlessly.  "  You  do  not  know — you  an  opera 
singer " 

He  was  interrupted.  There  suddenly  filled  the  air  a  sound 
of  deep,  heavenly  melody,  which  swept  solemnly  adown  the 
aisles,  and  fi.lled  with  its  melodious  thunder  every  comer  of 


*3  THE  FIRST  YIOLUr. 

the  great  building.  I  listened  with  my  face  upraised,  my  lip§ 
parted.  It  was  the  organ,  and  presently,  after  a  wonderful 
melody,  which  set  my  heart  beating — a  melody  full  of  the 
most  witchingly  sweet  high  notes,  and  a  breadth  and  grandeur 
of  low  ones  such  as  only  two  composers  have  ever  attained  to,- 
a  voice — a  single  woman's  voice — was  upraised.  She  waa 
invisible,  and  she  sung  till  the  very  sunshine  seemed  turned 
to  melody,  and  all  the  world  was  music — the  greatest,  most 
glorious  of  earthly  things. 

"  Blute  nur.  liebes  Herz  I 
Ach,  ein  Kind  das  du  erzogen. 
Das  an  deiner  Brust  gesogen,      ^ 
Drohet  den  Pfleger  zu  ermorden 
Denn  es  ist  zur  Schlange  worden." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  below  my  breath,  as  it  ceased. 

He  had  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  but  turned  to  m© 
CIS  I  spoke,  a  certain  half -suppressed  enthusiasm  in  his  eyes. 

"  Be  thankful  for  your  first  introduction  to  German  music," 
said  he,  "  and  that  was  grand  old  Johann  Sebastian  Bach 
whom  you  heard.  That  is  one  of  the  soprano  solos  in  the 
Passions-musiJc — that  is  music." 

There  was  more  music.  A  tenor  voice  was  singing  a 
recitative  now,  and  that  exquisite  accompaniment,  with  a 
Bort  of  joyful  solemnity,  still  continued.  Every  now  and 
then,  shrill,  high,  and  clear,  penetrated  a  chorus  of  boys' 
voices.  I,  outer  barbarian  that  I  was,  barely  knew  the  name 
of  Bach  and  his  "Matthaus  Passion,"  so  in  the  pauses  my 
companion  told  me  by  snatches  what  it  was  about.  There 
was  not  much  of  it.  After  a  few  solos  and  recitatives,  they 
tried  one  or  two  of  the  choruses.  I  sat  in  silence,  feeling  a 
new  world  breaking  in  glory  around  me,  till  that  tremendous 
chorus  came;  the  organ  notes  swelled  out,  the  tenor  voice 
8ung,  "  Whom  will  ye  that  I  give  unto  you?  "  and  the  answer 
came,  crashing  down  in  one  tremendous  clap,  "  Barrabam! " 
And  such  music  was  in  the  world,  had  been  sung  for  years, 
and  I  had  not  heard  it.  Verily,  there  may  be  revelations  and 
things  new  under  the  sun  every  day. 

I  had  forgotten  everytliing  outside  the  cathedral — every 
person  but  the  one  at  my  side.  It  was  he  who  roused  first, 
looking  at  his  watch  and  exclaiming: 

"Herrgottf  We  must  go  to  the  station,  Fraulein,  if  we 
wish  to  catch  the  train." 

And  yet  I  did  not  think  he  seemed  very  eager  to  catch  ii^ 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  43 

as  we  went  through  the  busy  streets  in  the  warmth  of  the 
evening,  for  it  was  hot,  as  it  is  sometimes  in  pleasant  April, 
before  the  withering  east  winds  of  the  "  merry  month  "  have 
come  to  devastate  the  land  and  sweep  sickly  people  off  the 
face  of  the  earth.  We  went  slowly  through  the  moving 
crowds  to  the  station,  into  the  wartesaal,  where  he  left  me 
while  he  went  to  take  my  ticket.  I  sat  in  the  same  corner 
of  the  same  sofa  as  before,  and  to  this  day  I  could  enumerate 
every  object  in  that  wartesaal. 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock.  The  outside  sky  was  still  bright, 
but  it  was  dusk  in  the  waiting  room  and  under  the  shadow 
of  the  station.  When' "  Eugen  Courvoisier  "  came  in  again, 
I  did  not  see  his  features  so  distinctly  as  lately  in  the  cathe- 
dral. Again  he  sat  down  beside  me,  silently  this  time.  I 
glanced  at  his  face,  and  a  strange,  sharp,  pungent  thrill  shot 
through  me.  The  companion  of  a  few  hours — was  he  only 
that? 

"  Are  you  very  tired?  "  he  asked  gently,  after  a  long  pause. 
"  I  think  the  train  will  not  be  very  long  now." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  clang,  clang,  went  the  bell,  and  for  the 
second  time  that  day  I  went  toward  the  train  for  Elberthal. 
This  time  no  wrong  turning,  no  mistake.  Courvoisier  put  me 
into  an  empty  compartment,  and  followed  me,  said  some- 
thing to  a  guard  who  went  past,  of  which  I  could  only  dis- 
tinguish the  word  allein;  but  as  no  one  disturbed  our  privacy, 
I  concluded  that  German  railway  guards,  like  English  ones, 
are  mortal. 

After  debating  within  myself  for  some  time,  I  screwed  up 
my  courage  and  began: 

"  Mr.  Courvoisier — your  name  is  Courvoisier,  is  it  not?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  how  much  money  you  have  spent 
for  me  to-day?" 

"How  miich  money?"  he  asked,  looking  at  me  with  a 
provoking  smile. 

The  train  was  rumbling  slowly  along,  the  night  darkening 
down.  We  sat  by  an  open  window,  and  I  looked  through  it 
at  the  gray,  Dutch-like  landscape,  the  falling  dusk,  the  pop- 
lars that  seemed  sedately  marching  along  with  us. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know  how  much?"  he  demanded. 

"  Because  I  shall  want  to  pay  you,  of  course,  when  I  get  my 
purse,"  said  I.  "  And  if  you  will  kindly  tell  me  your  addresSj, 
too — but  how  much  money  did  you  spend?" 


44  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

He  looked  at  me,  seemed  about  to  laugh  off  the  question, 
and  then  said: 

"I  believe  it  was  about  three  thalers  ten  groschen;  but  I 
am  not  at  all  sure.    I  cannot  tell  till  I  do  my  accounts." 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  said  I. 

"  Suppose  I  let  you  know  how  much  it  was,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  gravity  which  forced  conviction  upon  me. 

"  Perhaps  that  would  be  the  best,"  I  agreed.  "  But  I  hope 
you  will  make  out  your  accounts  soon." 

"  Oh,  very  soon!    And  where  shall  I  send  my  bill  to?  " 

Feehng  as  if  there  was  something  not  quite  as  it  should  be 
in  the  whole  proceeding,  I  looked  very  earnestly  at  him,  but 
could  find  nothing  but  the  most  perfect  gravity  in  his  expres- 
sion. I  repeated  my  address  and  name  slowly  and  distinctly, 
as  befitted  so  businesslike  a  transaction,  and  he  wrote  them 
down  in  a  little  book. 

"  And  you  will  not  forget,"  said  I,  "  to  give  me  your  address 
when  you  let  me  know  what  I  owe  you." 

"  Certainly — when  I  let  you  know  what  you  owe  me,"  he 
rephed,  putting  the  little  book  into  his  pocket  again. 

"  I  wonder  if  anyone  will  come  to  meet  me,"  I  speculated, 
my  mind  more  at  ease  in  consequence  of  the  businesslike 
demeanor  of  my  companion. 

"  Possibly,"  said  he,  with  an  ambiguous  half  smile,  which 
I  did  not  understand. 

"Miss  Hallam — the  lady  I  came  with — is  almost  bhnd. 
Her  maid  had  to  look  after  her,  and  I  suppose  that  is  why 
they  did  not  wait  for  me,"  said  I. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  very  strong  reason,  at  any  rate,"  he 
6aid  gravely. 

Now  the  train  rolled  into  the  Elberthal  station.  There 
were  lights,  movement,  a  storm  of  people  all  gabbHng  away 
in  a  foreign  tongue.  I  looked  out.  No  face  of  anyone  I 
knew.     Courvoisier  sprung  down  and  helped  me  out. 

"  Now  I  will  put  you  into  a  drosky,"  said  he,  leading  the 
way  to  where  they  stood  outside  the  station. 

"  Alleestrasse,  thirty-nine,"  he  said  to  the  man. 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  cried  I,  leaning  eagerly  out.  At  that 
moment  a  tall,  dark  girl  passed  us,  going  slowly  toward 
the  gates.  She  almost  paused  as  she  saw  us.  She  was  look- 
ing at  my  companion;  I  did  not  see  her  face,  and  was  only 
conscious  of  her  coming  between  me  and  him,  and  so  annoy- 
ing me. 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLIK  46 

"  Please  let  me  thank  you,"  I  continued.  "  You  hav  been 
BO  kind,  so  very  kind " 

"  0,  bitte  sehr!  It  was  so  kind  in  you  to  get  lost  exactly 
when  and  where  you  did,"  said  he,  smiling.  "Adieu,  mein 
Frdulei7i,"  he  added,  making  a  sign  to  the  coachman,  who 
drove  off. 

I  saw  him  no  more.  "  Eugen  Courvoisier  " — I  kept  repeat- 
ing the  name  to  myself,  as  if  I  were  in  the  very  least  danger 
of  forgetting  it — "  Eugen  Curvoisier."  Now  that  I  had 
parted  from  him  I  was  quite  clear  as  to  my  own  feelings.  I 
would  have  given  all  I  was  worth — not  much,  truly — to  see 
him  for  one  moment  again. 

Along  a  lighted  street  with  houses  on  one  side,  a  gleaming 
shine  of  water  on  the  other,  and  trees  on  both,  down  a  cross- 
way,  then  into  another  street,  very  wide,  and  gayly  lighted, 
in  the  midst  of  which  was  an  avenue. 

We  stopped  with  a  rattle  before  a  house  door,  and  I  read, 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  hung  over  it,  "  39." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ANNA    SAETOKIUS. 

I  WAS  expected.  That  was  very  evident.  An  excited- 
looking  Dicnstniddclien  opened  the  door,  and,  on  seeing  me, 
greeted  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  friend.  I  was  presently 
rescued  by  Merrick,  also  looking  agitated. 

"  Ho,  Miss  Wedderbum,  at  last  you  are  here!  How  Miss 
Hallam  have  worried,  to  be  sure." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  I,  following  her 
upstairs — up  a  great  many  flights  of  stairs,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  till  she  ushered  me  into  a  sitting  room,  where  I  found 
Miss  Hallam. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  child!  you  are  here  at  last.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  that  if  you  did  not  come  by  this  train,  I  must 
send  someone  to  Koln  to  look  after  you." 

"By  this  train!"  I  repeated  blankly.  "IMiss  Hallam — 
what — do  you  mean?    There  has  been  no  other  train." 

"  Two;  there  was  one  at  four  and  one  at  six.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  uneasy  I  have  been  at  your  non-appearance." 

"Theri — then "    I  stammered,  growing  hot  all  over 

**  Oh,  how  horrible! " 


4«  THE  FIRST  YIOLiy. 

""VThat  is  horrible?"  she  demanded.  "And  yon  mnst  !)« 
starring.  Merrick,  go  and  see  about  something  to  eat  for 
Hiss  Wedderbum.  ZSow/'  she  added,  as  her  maid  left  the 
room,  '•'  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing," 

I  told  her  everything,  concealing  nothing, 

"  Most  annoying!  "  she  remarked.  "  A  gentleman,  you  say. 
My  dear  child,  no  gentleman  would  have  done  anjrthing  of 
the  kind,     I  am  very  sorry  for  it  all." 

"  iliss  Hallam,"  I  implored,  almost  in  tears,  "  please  do 
not  tell  anyone  what  has  happened  to  me,  I  will  never  be 
Euch  a  fool  again.  I  know  now,  and  you  may  trust  me.  But 
do  not  let  anyone  know  how — stupid  I  have  been.  I  told  yon 
I  was  stupid — I  told  yon  several  times.  I  am  sure  yon  must 
remember." 

"  Oh,  yes!  I  remember.    "We  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  And  the  grav  shawl,"  said  I. 

"  Merrick  had  it." 

I  lifted  my  hands  and  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "  Just  my 
luck,"  I  murmured  resignedly,  as  Merrick  came  in  with  a 
tray. 

Miss  Hallam,  I  noticed,  continued  to  regard  me,  now  and 
then,  as  I  ate  with  but  small  appetite.  I  was  too  excited 
by  what  had  passed,  and  by  what  I  had  just  heard,  to  be 
hungry.  I  thought  it  kind,  merciful,  humane  in  her  to 
promise  to  keep  my  secret,  and  not  expose  my  ignorance  and 
stupidity  to  stranger, 

"  It  is  evident,"  she  remarked,  "  that  you  must  at  once 
begin  to  learn  German,  and  then,  if  you  do  get  lost  at  a  rail- 
way station  again,  you  will  be  able  to  ask  your  way." 

Merrick  shook  her  head  with  an  inexpressibly  bitter  smile. 

"  I  defy  anyone  to  learn  this  'ere  language,  ma'am.  They 
call  an  accident  a  Ungluch;  if  anyone  could  tell  me  what  that 
means,  I'd  thank  them,  that's  aU." 

"  Don't  express  your  opinions,  Merrick,  unless  you  wish  to 
seem  deficient  in  understanding;  but  go  and  see  that  ^Mist 
Wedderbum  has  everything  she  wants— or  rather  everything 
that  can  be  got — ^in  her  room.  She  is  tired,  and  shall  go 
to  bed." 

I  was  only  too  glad  to  comply  vrith  this  mandate,  but  it 
was  long  ere  I  slept.  I  kept  hearing  the  organ  in  the  cathe- 
dral, and  that  voice  of  the  invisible  singer — seeing  the  face 
beside  me,  and  hearing  the  woris,  "  Then  you  hare  decided 
ttiat  I  am  to  be  trusted?  '* 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  47 

"And  he  was  deceiving  me  all  the  time!"  I  thought 
mournfully. 

I  breakfasted  by  myself  the  following  morning,  in  a  room 
called  the  speisesaal.  I  found  I  was  late.  When  I  came 
into  the  room,  about  nine  o'clock,  there  was  no  one  but  myself 
to  be  seen.  There  was  a  long  table  with  a  white  cloth  upon 
it,  and  rows  of  the  thickest  cups  and  saucers  it  had  ever  been 
my  fate  to  see,  with  distinct  evidences  that  the  chief  part  of 
the  company  had  already  breakfasted.  Baskets  full  of  Brod- 
cJien  and  pots  of  butter,  a  long  India-rubber  pipe  coming 
from  the  gas  to  hght  a  theemaschine — lots  of  cane-bottomed 
chairs,  an  open  piano,  two  cages  with  canaries  in  them;  the 
kettle  gently  simmering  above  the  gas-flame;  for  the  rest, 
silence  and  soUtude. 

I  sat  down,  having  found  a  clean  cup  and  plate,  and  glanced 
timidly  at  the  theemaschine,  not  daring  to  cope  with  its  mys- 
teries, until  my  doubts  were  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  a 
young  person  with  a  trim  little  figure,  a  coquettishly  cut  and 
elaborately  braided  apron,  and  a  white-frilled  Morgenhaube 
upon  her  hair,  surmounting  her  round,  heavenward-aspiring 
visage. 

"  Guten  morgen,  Frdulein/'  she  said,  as  she  marched  up  to 
the  darkly  mysterious  theemaschine  and  began  deftly  to  pre- 
pare cofiee  for  me,  and  to  push  the  Brodchen  toward  me. 
She  began  to  talk  to  me  in  broken  English,  which  was  very 
pretty,  and,  while  I  ate  and  drank,  she  industriously  scraped 
little  white  roots  at  the  same  table.  She  told  me  she  was 
Clara,  the  niece  of  Frau  Steinmann,  and  that  she  was  very 
glad  to  see  me,  but  was  very  sorry  I  had  so  long  to  wait  in 
Koln  yesterday.  She  hked  my  dress,  and  was  it  edit  Englisch 
— also,  how  much  did  it  cost? 

She  was  a  cheery  little  person,  and  I  liked  her.  She 
seemed  to  hke  me,  too;  and  repeatedly  said  she  was  glad  I 
had  come.  She  hked  dancing,  she  said.  Did  I?  And  she 
hal  lately  danced  at  a  ball  with  someone  who  danced  so  well 
— dber,  quite  indescribably  well.  His  name  was  Karl  Linders, 
and  he  was,  ach!  really  a  remarkable  person.  A  bright  blush 
and  a  little  sigh  accompanied  the  remark.  Our  eyes  met,  and 
from  that  moment  Clara  and  I  were  very  good  friends. 

I  went  upstairs  again,  and  found  that  Miss  Hallam  pro- 
posed, during  the  forenoon,  to  go  and  find  the  Eye  Hospital, 
where  she  was  to  see  the  ocuhst,  and  arrange  for  him  to 
ivisit  her,  and  shortly  after  eleven  we  set  out. 


48  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

The  street  that  I  had  so  dimly  seen  the  night  before 
showed  itself  by  daylight  to  be  a  fair,  broad  way.  Down  the 
middle,  after  the  pleasant  fashion  of  Continental  towns,  was 
a  broad  walk,  planted  with  two  double  rows  of  Kndens,  and 
on  either  side  this  lindenallee  were  the  carriage  road,  private 
houses,  shops,  exhibitions,  boarding  houses.  In  the  middle, 
exactly  opposite  our  dwelling,  was  the  New  Theater,  just 
drawing  to  the  close  of  its  first  season.  I  looked  at  it  with- 
out thinking  much  about  it.  I  had  never  been  in  a  theater 
in  my  life,  and  the  name  was  but  a  name  to  me. 

Turning  off  from  the  pretty  allee,  and  from  the  green 
Hofgarten  which  bounded  it  at  one  end,  we  entered  a  nar- 
row, ill-paved  street,  the  aspect  of  whose  gutters  and  inhabit- 
ants alike  excited  my  liveliest  disgust.  In  this  street  was  the 
Eye  Hospital,  as  was  presently  testified  to  us  by  a  board  bear- 
ing the  inscription,  "  Stadtische  Augenklinik." 

We  were  taken  to  a  dimly  lighted  room,  in  which  many 
people  were  waiting,  some  with  bandages  over  their  eyes, 
others  with  all  kinds  of  extraordinary  spectacles  on,  which 
made  them  look  like  phantoms  out  of  a  bad  dream — nearly 
all  more  or  less  blind,  and  the  effect  was  surprisingly 
depressing. 

Presently  Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick  were  admitted  to  an 
inner  room,  and  I  was  left  to  await  their  return.  My  eye 
strayed  over  the  difilerent  faces,  and  I  felt  a  sensation  of 
relief  when  I  saw  someone  come  in  without  either  bandage  or 
spectacles.  The  newcomer  was  a  young  man  of  middle  height, 
and  of  proportions  slight  without  being  thin.  There  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  his  eyes,  unless,  perhaps,  a  slight 
short-sightedness;  he  had,  I  thought,  one  of  the  gentlest, 
most  attractive  faces  I  had  ever  seen;  boyishly  open  and 
innocent  at  the  first  glance;  at  the  second,  indued  with  a 
certain  reticent  calm  and  intellectual  radiance  which  took 
away  from  the  first  youthfulness  of  his  appearance.  Soft,  yet 
luminous,  brown  eyes,  loose  brown  hair  hanging  round  his 
face,  a  certain  manner  which,  for  me  at  least,  had  a  charm, 
were  the  characteristics  of  this  young  man.  He  carried  a 
violin  case,  removed  his  hat  as  he  came  in,  and,  being  seen 
by  one  of  the  young  men  who  sat  at  the  desk,  took  names 
down,  and  attended  to  people  in  general,  was  called  by  him; 

"  Herr  Helfen — Herr  Friedhelm  Helfen!  " 

"^  Ja — hier!"  he  answered,  going  up  to  the  desk,  upon 
which  there  ensued  a  lively  conversation,  though  carried  on 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  49 

in  a  low  tone,  after  which  the  young  man  at  the  desk  pre- 
sented a  white  card  to  "  Herr  Friedhelm  Helf  en,"  and  the 
latter,  with  a  pleasant  "  Adieu,"  went  out  of  the  room  again. 

Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick  presently  returned  from  the  con- 
sulting room, and  we  went  out  of  the  darkroom  into  the  street, 
which  was  filled  with  spring  sunshine  and  warmth — a  con- 
trast something  like  that  between  Miss  Hallam's  life  and  my 
own,  I  have  thought  since.  For  before  us,  hurrying  on,  I  saw 
the  young  man  with  the  violin  case;  he  turned  o2  by  the 
theater,  and  went  in  at  a  side  door. 

An  hour's  wandering  in  the  Hofgarten — ^my  first  view  of 
the  Rhine — a  dull,  flat  stream  it  looked,  too.  I  have  seen  it 
since  then  in  mightier  flow.  Then  we  came  home,  and  it  was 
decided  that  we  should  dine  together  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  at  one  o'clock. 

A  bell  rang  at  a  few  minutes  past  one.  "We  went  down- 
stairs into  the  room  in  which  I  had  already  breakfasted, 
which,  in  general,  was  known  as  the  saal.  As  I  entered  with 
Miss  Hallam  I  was  conscious  that  a  knot  of  lads  or  young 
men  stood  aside  to  let  us  pass,  and  then  giggled  and  scufded 
behind  the  door  before  following  us  into  the  saal. 

Two  or  three  ladies  were  already  seated,  and  an  exceed- 
ingly stout  lady  ladled  out  soup  at  a  side  table,  while  Clara 
and  a  servant  woman  carried  the  plates  round  to  the  different 
places.  The  stout  lady  turned  as  she  saw  us,  and  greeted 
us.  She  was  Frau  Steinmann,  our  hostess.  She  waited  until 
the  youths  before  spoken  of  had  come  in,  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  noise  had  seated  themselves,  when  she  began,  aided 
by  the  soup-ladle,  to  introduce  us  all  to  each  other. 

"We,  it  seemed,  were  to  have  the  honor  and  privilege  of 
being  the  only  English  ladies  of  the  company.  "We  were 
introduced  to  one  or  two  others,  and  I  was  assigned  a  place 
by  a  lady  introduced  as  Fraulein  Anna  Sartorius,  a  brunette, 
rather  stout,  with  large  dark  eyes,  which  looked  at  me  in  a 
way  I  did  not  like,  a  head  of  curly  black  hair,  cropped  short, 
an  odd,  brusque  manner,  and  a  something  peculiar,  or,  as  she 
said,  selten  in  her  dress.  This  young  lady  sustained  the  in- 
troduction with  self-possession  and  calm.  It  was  otherwise 
with  the  young  gentlemen,  who  appeared  decidedly  mixed. 
There  were  some  half  dozen  of  them  in  all — a  couple  of  Eng- 
lish, the  rest  German,  Dutch,  and  Swedish.  I  had  never 
been  in  company  with  so  many  nationalities  before,  and  waa 
impressed  with  my  situation — needlessly  so. 


50  THE  FIB8T  VIOLm. 

All  these  young  gentlemen  made  bows  which  were,  in  their 
respective  ways,  triumphs  of  awkwardness,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  of  our  compatriots,  who  appeared  to  believe  that 
himself  and  his  manners  were  formed  to  charm  and  subdue 
the  opposite  sex.  We  then  sat  down,  and  Fraulein  Sartorius 
immediately  opened  a  conversation  with  me. 

'' Sprechen  Sie  Deutsch,  Fraulein?"  was  her  first  venture, 
and  having  received  my  admission  that  I  did  not  speak  a 
word  of  it,  she  continued  in  good  English: 

"  Now  I  can  talk  to  you  without  offending  you.  It  is  so 
dreadful  when  English  people  who  don't  know  German  per- 
sist in  thinking  that  they  do.  There  was  an  Enghshwoman 
here  who  always  said  wer  when  she  meant  where,  and  wo 
when  she  meant  who.    She  said  the  sounds  confused  her.'' 

The  boys  giggled  at  this,  but  the  joke  was  lost  upon!  me. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  continued.  "I  didn't  catch' 
what  Frau  Steinmann  said." 

"May  Wedderburn,"  I  replied,  angry  with  myself  for 
blushing  so  excessively  as  I  saw  that  all  the  boys  held  their 
spoons  suspended,  listening  for  my  answer. 

" May — das  heisst  Mai"  said  she,  turning  to  the  assem- 
bled youths,  who  testified  that  they  were  aware  of  it,  and  the 
Dutch  boy.  Brinks,  inquired  gutturally: 

"  You  haf  one  zong  in  your  language  what  calls  itself  '  Not 
Always  Mai,'  haf  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  and  all  the  boys  began  to  giggle,  as  if  some- 
thing clever  had  been  said.  Taken  all  in  all,  what  tortures 
have  I  not  suffered  from  those  dreadful  boys.  Shy  when  they 
ought  to  have  been  bold,  and  bold  where  a  modest  retiring- 
ness  would  better  have  become  them.  Giggling  inanely  at 
everything  and  nothing.  Noisy  and  vociferous  among  them- 
selves or  with  inferiors;  shy,  awkward,  and  blushing  with 
ladies  or  in  refined  society — distressing  my  feeble  efforts  to 
talk  to  them  by  their  silly  explosions  of  laughter  when  one 
of  tkem  was  addressed.  They  formed  the  bane  of  my  life  for 
some  time. 

"  Will  you  let  me  paint  you?  "  said  Fraulein  Sartorius, 
whose  big  eyes  had  been  surveying  me  in  a  manner  that  made 
me  nervous. 

"Paint  me?" 

"Your  likeness,  I  mean.  You  are  very  pretty,  and  we 
never  see  that  color  of  hair  here." 

"  Are  you  a  painter?  '* 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  51 

"No,  I'm  only  a  Studentin  yet;  but  I  paint  from  models, 
^ell,  will  you  sit  to  me?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !    If  I  have  time,  perhaps." 

"  What  will  you  do  to  make  you  not  have  time?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I  have  never  lived  in  a  town." 

I  did  not  feel  disposed  to  gratify  her  curiosity,  and  said 
I  did  not  know  yet  what  I  should  do. 

For  a  short  time  she  asked  no  questions,  then: 

*'  Do  you  like  town  or  country  best?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  have  never  lived  in  a  town." 
/  **  Do  you  like  amusements — concerts,  and  theater,  and  opera  ?  ** 

*'I  don't  know,"  I  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  confess,  for 
I  saw  that  the  assembled  youths,  though  not  looking  at  me 
openly  and  apparently  entirely  engrossed  with  their  dinners, 
were  listening  attentively  to  what  passed. 

"You  don't  know,"  repeated  Fraulein  Sartorius,  quickly 
seeing  through  my  thin  assumption  of  indifference  and  pro- 
ceeding to  draw  me  out  as  much  as  possible.  I  wished  Ade- 
laide had  been  there  to  beat  her  from  the  field.  She  would 
have  done  it  better  than  I  could. 

"  No;  because  I  have  never  been  to  any." 

"Haven't  you?  How  odd!  How  very  odd!  Isn't  it 
strange?  "  she  added,  appealing  to  the  boys.  "  Fraulein  has 
never  been  to  a  theater  or  a  concert." 

I  disdained  to  remark  that  my  words  were  being  perverted, 
but  the  game  instinct  rose  in  me.  Kaising  my  voice  a  little, 
I  remarked: 

"  It  is  evident  that  I  have  not  enjoyed  your  advantages, 
but  I  trust  that  the  gentlemen  "  (with  a  bow  to  the  listening 
boys)  "  will  make  allowances  for  the  difference  between  us." 

The  young  gentlemen  burst  into  a  chorus  of  delighted 
giggles,  and  Anna,  shooting  a  rapid  glance  at  me,  made  a 
slight  grimace,  but  looked  not  at  all  displeased.  I  was, 
though,  mightily;  but,  elate  with  victory,  I  turned  to  my  com- 
patriot at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and  asked  him  at  what 
time  of  the  year  Elberthal  was  pleasantest. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  it's  always  pleasant  to  me,  but  that's 
owing  to  myself.     I  make  it  so." 

Just  then  several  of  the  other  lads  rose,  pushing  their 
chairs  back  with  a  great  clatter,  bowing  to  the  assembled 
company,  and  saying  "Gesegnete  MahLzeit!"  as  they  went  out. 

"  Why  are  they  going,  and  what  do  they  say?  "  I  inquired 
oi  ]\Iis8  Sartorius,  who  replied  quite  amiably: 


52  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  They  are  students  at  the  Kealschule.  They  have  to  "be 
there  at  two  o'clock,  and  they  say,  'Blessed  be  the  meal- 
time '  as  they  go  out." 

"  Do  they?    How  nice!  "  I  could  not  help  saying. 

"  Would  you  hke  to  go  for  a  walk  this  afternoon?  "  said 
she. 

"  Oh,  very  much! "  I  had  exclaimed  before  I  remembered 
that  I  did  not  like  her,  and  did  not  intend  to  like  her.  "  If 
■Miss  Hallam  can  spare  me,''  I  added. 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  will!  I  shall  be  ready  at  half -past  two; 
then  we  shall  return  for  coffee  at  four.  I  will  knock  at  your 
door  at  the  time." 

On  consulting  Miss  Hallam  after  dinner,  I  found  she  was 
quite  willing  for  me  to  go  out  with  Anna,  and  at  the  time 
appointed  we  set  out. 

Anna  took  me  a  tour  round  the  town,  showed  me  the  lions, 
and  gave  me  topographical  details.  She  showed  me  the  big, 
plain  barrack,  and  the  desert  waste  of  the  Exerzierplatz 
spreading  before  it.  She  did  tier  best  to  entertain  me,  and  I, 
with  a  childish  prejudice  against  her  abrupt  manner,  and  the 
free,  somewhat  challenging,  look  of  her  black  eyes,  was  re- 
served, unresponsive,  stupid.  I  took  a  prejudice  against  her 
— I  own  it — and  for  that  and  other  sins  committed  against  a 
woman  who  would  have  been  my  friend  if  I  would  have  let 
her,  I  say  humbly,  Mea  culpa! 

"  It  seems  a  dull  kind  of  a  place,"  said  I. 

"It  need  not  be.  You  have  advantages  here  which  you 
can't  get  everywhere.  I  have  been  here  several  years,  and, 
as  I  have  no  other  home,  I  rather  think  I  shall  live  here." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"  You  have  a  home,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"Brothers  and  sisters?" 

"  Two  sisters,"  I  replied,  mightily  ruffled  by  what  I  chose 
to  consider  her  curiosity  and  impertinence;  though,  when 
If  looked  at  her,  I  saw  what  I  could  not  but  confess  to  be 
a  real,  and  not  unkind,  interest  in  her  plain  face  and  big 
eyes. 

"Ah!  I  have  no  brothers  and  sisters.  I  have  only  a  little 
house  in  the  country;  and,  as  I  have  always  hved  in  a  town,  I 
don't  care  for  the  country.  It  is  so  lonely.  The  people  are 
so  stupid,  too — not  always,  though.  You  were  offended  with 
me  at  dinner,  7iicht  wahrl" 


TEE  FIRST  TIOLIUf.  53 

"  Oh,  dear,  no! "  said  I,  very  awkwardly  and  very  untruly. 
The  truth  was,  I  did  not  like  her,  and  was  too  young,  too 
ignorant,  and  gauclie  to  try  to  smooth  over  my  dislike.  I  did 
not  know  the  pain  I  was  giving;  and  if  I  had,  should  perhaps 
not  have  hehaved  differently. 

" Docli!"  she  said,  smiling.  "But  I  did  not  know  what  a 
child  you  were,  or  I  should  have  left  you  alone." 

More  offended  than  ever,  I  maintained  silence.  If  I  were 
certainly  touchy  and  ill  to  please,  Fraulein  Sartorius,  it  must 
be  owned,  did  not  know  how  to  apologize  gracefully.  I  have 
since,  with  wider  knowledge  of  her  country  and  its  men  and 
women,  got  to  see  that  what  made  her  so  inharmonious  was 
that  she  had  a  woman's  form  and  a  man's  disposition  and  love 
of  freedom.  As  her  countrywomen,  taken  in  the  gross,  are 
the  most  utterly  "  in  honds  "  of  any  women  in  Europe,  this 
spoiled  her  life  in  a  manner  which  cannot  be  understood  here, 
where  women,  in  comparison,  are  free  as  air,  and  gave  no 
little  of  the  brusqueness  and  roughness  to  her  manner.  In 
an  enlightened  English  home  she  would  have  been  an  ad- 
mirable, firm,  clever  woman;  here  she  was  that  most  dread- 
ful of  all  abnormal  growths — a  woman  with  a  will  of  her  own. 

"What  do  they  do  here?"  I  inquired  indifferently. 

"  Oh,  many  things!  Though  it  is  not  a  large  town,  there 
is  a  school  of  art,  which  brings  many  painters  here.  There 
are  a  hundred  and  fifty — besides  students." 

"  And  you  are  a  student?  " 

"  Yes.  One  must  have  something  to  do — ^some  carriere-^ 
though  my  countrywomen  say  not.  I  shall  go  away  for  a  few 
months  soon,  but  I  am  waiting  for  the  last  great  concert.  It 
will  be  the  *  Paradise  Lost '  of  Eubinstein." 

"  Ah,  yes!  "  said  I  politely,  but  without  interest.  I  had 
never  heard  of  Eubinstein  and  the  "Verlorenes  Paradies." 
Eefore  the  furor  of  1876,  how  many  scores  of  provincial 
English  had? 

"  There  is  very  much  music  here,"  she  continued.  "  Are 
you  fond  of  it?  " 

"  Ye-es.  I  can't  play  much;  but  I  can  sing.  I  have  come 
here  partly  to  take  singing  lessons." 

"  So! " 

"Who  is  the  best  teacher?"  was  my  next  ingenuous 
question. 

She  laughed. 

"That   depends   on   what   you   want   to   learn.     There 


54  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

are  so  many — violin.  Clavier  (that  is,  piano),  flute,  'cello, 
everything/' 

"  Oh! "  I  replied,  and  asked  no  more  questions  about 
music;  but  inquired  if  it  were  pleasant  at  Frau  Steinmann's. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Is  it  pleasant  anywhere?  I  don't  find  many  places 
pleasant,  because  I  cannot  be  a  humbug,  so  others  do  not 
like  me.  But  I  believe  some  people  like  Elberthal  very  well. 
There  is  the  theater — that  makes  another  element.  And 
there  are  the  soldiers  and  Eaufleute — merchants,  I  mean;  so, 
you  see,  there  is  variety,  though  it  is  a  small  place." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  I,  looking  about  me  as  we  passed  down 
a  very  busy  street,  and  I  glanced  to  right  and  left,  with  the 
image  of  Eugen  Courvoisier  ever  distinctly,  if  unconfessedly, 
present  to  my  mental  view.  Did  he  live  at  Elberthal?  And, 
if  so,  did  he  belong  to  any  of  those  various  callings?  What 
was  he?  An  artist  who  painted  pictures  for  his  bread?  I 
thought  that  very  probable.  There  was  something  free  and 
artist-like  in  his  manner,  in  his  loose,  waving  hair,  and  in  his 
keen  susceptibility  to  beauty.  I  thought  of  his  emotion  at 
hearing  that  glorious  Bach  music.  Or  was  he  a  musician — 
what  Anna  Sartorius  called  ein  Musiker?  But  no.  My  ideas 
of  musicians  were  somewhat  hazy,  not  to  say  utterly  chaotic; 
they  embraced  only  two  classes — those  who  performed  or 
gave  lessons,  and  those  who  composed.  I  had  never  formed 
to  myself  the  faintest  idea  of  a  composer,  and  my  experience 
of  teachers  and  performers  was  limited  to  one  specimen — 
Mr.  Smythe  of  Darton,  whose  method  and  performances 
would,  as  I  have  since  learned,  have  made  the  hair  of  a  musi- 
cian stand  hon-ent  on  end.  No — I  did  not  think  he  was  a 
musician.  An  actor?  Perish  the  thought!  was  my  inevitable 
mental  answer.  How  should  I  be  able  to  make  any  better 
one?  A  soldier,  then?  At  that  moment  we  met  a  mounted 
captain  of  Uhlans,  harness  clanking,  accouterments  rattling. 
He  was  apparently  an  acquaintance  of  my  companion,  for 
he  saluted  with  a  grave  politeness  which  sat  well  upon  him. 
Decidedly,  Eugen  Courvoisier  had  the  air  of  a  soldier.  That 
accounted  for  all.  No  doubt  he  was  a  soldier.  In  my  igno- 
rance of  the  strictness  of  German  military  regulations  as  re- 
gards the  wearing  of  uniform,  I  overlooked  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  in  civilian's  dress,  and  remained  delighted  with  my 
new  idea;  Captain  Courvoisier.  "What  is  the  German  for 
captain?  "  I  inquired  abruptly. 


THE  FIRST  VlOZm  55 

\     "  Hauptmann." 

'     "Thank  you."    Hauptmann  Eugen  Courvoisier — a  noble 

and  gallant  title,  and  one  which  became  him. 

"  How  much  is  a  thaler?  "  was  my  next  question. 

"  It  is  as  much  as  three  shillings  in  your  money." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  I,  and  did  a  little  sum  in  my  own 
mind.  At  that  rate,  then,  I  owed  Herr  Courvoisier  the  sum 
of  ten  shillings.  How  glad  I  was  to  find  it  came  within  my 
means. 

As  I  took  off  my  things,  I  wondered  when  Herr  Courroisier 
would  "  make  out  his  accounts."    I  trusted  soon. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

*•  Probe  zum  verlorenen  Paradiese." 

Miss  Hallam  fulfilled  her  promise  with  regard  to  my 
singing  lessons.  She  had  a  conversation  with  Fraulein  Sar- 
torius,  to  whom,  unpopular  as  she  was,  I  noticed  people  con- 
stantly and  almost  instinctively  went  when  in  need  of  precise 
information  or  a  sHght  dose  of  common  sense  and  clear- 
headedness. 

Miss  Hallam  inquired  who  was  the  best  master. 

"For  singing,  the  Herr  Direktor,"  replied  Anna  very 
promptly.  "And  then  he  directs  the  best  of  the  musical 
vereins — the  clubs,  societies — whatever  you  name  them.  At 
least,  he  might  try  Miss  Wedderburn's  voice." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  The  head  of  anything  belonging  to  music  in  the  town — 
koniglicher  musikdirektor.  He  conducts  all  the  great  con- 
certs, and,  though  he  does  not  sing  himself,  yet  he  is  one  of 
the  best  teachers  in  the  province.  Lots  of  people  come  and 
stay  here  on  purpose  to  learn  from  him." 

"  And  what  are  these  vereins?  " 

"Every  season  there  are  six  great  cone  arts  given,  and  a 
seventh  for  the  benefit  of  the  direktor.  The  orchestra  and 
chorus  together  are  called  a  verein — musikverein.  The 
chorus  is  chiefly  composed  of  ladies  and  gentlemen — ama- 
teurs, you  know — Dilettanten.  The  Herr  Direktor  is  very 
particular  about  voices.  You  pay  so  much  for  admission, 
and  receive  a  card  for  the  season.  Then  you  have  all  the 
igood  teaching — the  Proben" 


56  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  What  is  a  Frole?  "  I  demanded  hastily,  remem!5eriiig  thafl 
Courvoisier  had  used  the  word. 

"  What  you  call  a  rehearsal." 

Ah!  then  he  was  musical.  At  last  I  found  it  out.  Per- 
haps he  was  one  of  the  amateurs  who  sung  at  these  concerts, 

and,  if  so,  I  might  see  him  again,  and  if  so But  Anna 

went  on: 

"It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  anyone,  particularly  with 
such  a  teacher  as  Yon  Francius." 

"  You  must  join,"  said  Miss  Hallam  to  me. 

*' There  is  a  probe  to-night  to  Rubinstein's  'Paradise 
Lost,'  "  said  Anna.  "  I  shall  go,  not  to  sing,  but  to  hsten.  I 
can  take  Miss  Wedderburn,  if  you  like,  and  introduce  her  to 
Herr  von  Francius,  whom  I  know." 

"  Yery  nice!  Very  much  obliged  to  you.  Certainly,"  said 
Miss  Hallam. 

The  probe  was  fixed  for  seven,  and  shortly  after  that  time 
we  set  o£E  for  the  Tonhalle,  or  concert  hall,  in  which  it  was 
held. 

"  We  shall  be  much  too  early,"  said  she.  "  But  the  peo- 
ple are  shamefully  late.  Most  of  them  only  come  to  Matsch, 
and  flirt,  or  try  to  flirt,  with  the  Herr  Direktor." 

This  threw  upon  my  mind  a  new  hght  as  to  the  Heir 
Direktor,  and  I  walked  by  her  side  much  impressed.  She 
told  me  that  if  I  accepted  I  might  even  sing  in  the  concert 
itself,  as  there  had  only  been  four  proben  so  far,  and  there 
were  still  several  before  the  haupt-probe. 

"  What  is  the  haupt-probe?  "  I  inquired. 

"  General  rehearsal — when  Herr  von  Francius  is  most  un- 
merciful to  his  stupid  pupils.  I  always  attend  that.  I  like 
to  hear  him  make  sport  of  them,  and  then  the  instrumen- 
talists laugh  at  them.    Yon  Francius  never  flatters." 

Inspired  with  nightmare-Hke  ideas  as  to  this  terrible  haupt- 
probe,  I  found  myself,  with  Anna,  turning  into  a  low-fronted 
building  inscribed  "  Stadtische  Tonhalle,"  the  concert-hall 
of  the  good  town  of  Elberthal. 

"  This  way,"  said  she.  "  It  is  in  the  rittersaal.  We  don't  go 
to  the  large^saal  till  the  haupt-probe." 

I  followed  her  into  a  long,  rather  shabby-looHng  room,  at 
one  end  of  which  was  a  low  orchestra,  about  which  were  dotted 
the  desks  of  the  absent  instrumentalists,  and  some  stiff-look- 
ing 'celh  and  contrabassi  kept  watch  from  the  wall.  On  the 
orchestra  was  abeady  assembled  a  goodly  number  of  young 


SEE  FIRST  YIOLim  WT 

men  aad  women,  all  in  lively  conversation,  loud  laugliter, 
and  apparently  high  good-humor  with  themselves  and  every- 
thing in  the  world. 

A  young  man  with  a  fuzz  of  hair  standing  off  about  a  sad 
and  depressed-looking  countenance  was  stealing  "  in  and  out 
and  round  about,"  and  distributing  sheets  of  score  to  the 
company.  In  the  conductor's  place  was  a  tall  man  in  gray 
clothes,  who  leaned  negligently  against  the  rail,  and  held  a 
conversation  with  a  pretty  young  lady,  who  seemed  much 
pleased  with  his  attention.  It  did  not  strike  me  at  first  that 
this  was  the  terrible  direktor  of  whom  I  had  been  hearing. 
He  was  young,  had  a  slender,  graceful  figure,  and  an  exceed- 
ingly handsome,  though  (I  thought  at  first)  an  unpleasing 
face.  There  was  something  in  his  attitude  and  manner  which 
at  first  I  did  not  quite  like.  Anna  walked  up  the  room,  and, 
pausing  before  the  estrade,  said: 

"  Herr  Direktor! " 

He  turned;  his  eyes  fell  upon  her  face,  and  left  it  in- 
stantly to  look  at  mine.  Gathering  himself  together  into  a 
more  ceremonious  attitude,  he  descended  from  his  estrade, 
and  stood  beside  us,  a  little  to  one  side,  looking  at  us  with  a 
leisurely  calmness  which  made  me  feel,  I  know  not  why,  un- 
comfortable.    Meanwhile,  Anna  took  up  her  parable. 

"  May  I  introduce  the  young  lady?  Miss  Wedderbum, 
Herr  Musik  Direktor  von  Francius.  Miss  Wedderbum 
wishes  to  join  the  verein,  if  you  think  her  voice  will  pass. 
Perhaps  you  will  allow  her  to  sing  to-night?" 

"  Certainly,  mnn  Frdulein,"  said  he  to  me,  not  to  Anna. 
He  had  a  long,  rather  Jewish-looking  face,  black  hair,  eyes, 
and  mustache.  The  features  were  thin,  fine,  and  pointed. 
The  thing  which  most  struck  me  then,  at  any  rate,  was  a  cer- 
tain expression  which,  conquering  all  others,  dominated  them 
— at  once  a  hardness  and  a  hardihood  which  impressed  me 
disagreeably  then,  though  I  afterward  learned,  in  knowing 
the  man,  to  know  much  more  truly  the  real  meaning  of  that 
unflinching  gaze  and  iron  look. 

"  Your  voice  is  what,  mein  Frdulein?  "  he  asked. 

"  Soprano." 

"  Sopran?  We  will  see.  The  soprani  sit  over  there,  if  you 
will  have  the  goodness." 

He  pointed  to  the  left  of  the  orchestra,  and  called  out  to 
the  melancholy-looking  young  man:  "  Herr  Schonfeld,  a 
chair  for  the  young  lady! " 


8S  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN: 

Herr  von  Francius  tKen  ascended  the  orchestra  himseU^ 
went  to  the  piano,  and,  after  a  few  directions,  gave  us  the 
signal  to  begin.  Till  that  day — I  confess  it  with  shame — I 
had  never  heard  of  the  "  Verlorenes  Paradies."  It  came  upon 
me  like  a  revelation.  I  sung  my  best,  substituting  do,  re,  mi, 
etc.,  for  the  German  words.  Once  or  twice,  as  Herr  von 
Trancius'  forefinger  beat  time,  I  thought  I  saw  his  head 
turn  a  little  in  our  direction,  but  I  scarcely  heeded  it.  When 
the  first  chorus  was  over,  he  turned  to  me: 

"  You  have  not  sung  in  a  chorus  before?  " 

"  No." 

**  So!  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing  something  sola"  He 
pushed  toward  me  a  pile  of  music,  and  while  the  others  stood 
looking  on,  and  whispering  among  themselves,  he  went  on: 
"  Those  are  all  sopran  songs.  Select  one,  if  you  please,  and 
try  it." 

Not  at  all  aware  that  the  incident  was  considered  unprec- 
edented, and  was  causing  a  sensation,  I  turned  over  the 
music,  seeking  something  I  knew,  but  could  find  nothing. 
All  in  German,  and  all  strange.  Suddenly  I  came  upon  one 
entitled,  "  Blute  nur,  liebes  Herz,"  the  soprano  solo  which  I 
had  heard  as  I  sat  with  Courvoisier  in  the  cathedral.  It 
seemed  almost  like  an  old  friend.  I  opened  it,  and  found  it 
had  also  English  words.    That  decided  me. 

"  I  will  try  this,"  said  I,  showing  it  to  him. 

He  smiled.  '"Sistgut!"  Then  he  read  the  title  of  the 
song  aloud,  and  there  was  a  general  titter,  as  if  some  very 
great  joke  were  in  agitation,  and  were  much  appreciated. 
Indeed,  I  found  that  in  general  the  Jokes  of  Herr  Direktor, 
when  he  condescended  to  make  any,  were  very  keenly  relished 
by  at  least  the  lady  part  of  his  pupils. 

Not  understanding  the  reason  of  the  titter,  I  took  the 
music  in  my  hand,  and,  waiting  for  a  moment,  until  he  gave 
me  the  signal,  sung  it  after  the  best  wise  I  could — not  very 
brilliantly,  I  dare  say,  but  with  at  least  all  my  heart  poured 
into  it.  I  had  one  requisite,  at  least,  of  an  artist  nature — ^I 
could  abstract  myself  upon  occasion  completely  from  my 
surroundings.  I  did  so  now.  It  was  too  beautiful,  too  grand. 
I  remembered  that  afternoon  at  Koln — the  golden  sunshine . 
streaming  through  the  painted  windows,  the  flood  of  melody 
poured  forth  by  the  invisible  singer;  above  all,  I  remembered 
who  had  been  by  my  side,  and  I  felt  as  if  again  beside  him — 
again  influenced  by  the  unusual  beauty  of  his  face  and  mien, 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  69 

and  by  his  clear,  strange,  commanding  eyes.  It  all  came 
back  to  me — tlie  strangest,  happiest  day  of  my  life.  I  sung 
as  I  had  never  sung  before — as  1  had  not  known  I  could  sing. 

When  I  stopped  the  tittering  had  ceased;  silence  saluted 
me.  The  young  ladies  were  all  looking  at  me;  some  of  them 
had  put  on  their  eye-glasses;  others  stared  at  me  as  if  I  were 
some  strange  animal  from  a  menagerie.  The  young  gentle- 
men were  whispering  among  themselves  and  taking  sidelong 
glances  at  me.  I  scarcely  heeded  anything  of  it.  I  fixed  my 
eyes  upon  the  judge  who  had  been  listening  to  my  perform- 
ance— upon  Von  Francius.  He  was  pulhng  his  mustache, 
and  at  first  made  no  remark. 

"You  have  sung  that  song  before,  gnddiges  Frdukin?" 

"No.  I  have  heard  it  once.  I  have  not  seen  the  music 
before." 

"  So!  "  He  bowed  slightly,  and,  turning  once  more  to  the 
others,  said: 

"  We  will  begin  the  next  chorus,  *  Chorus  of  the  Damned.' 
Now,  meine  Herrschaften,  I  would  wish  to  impress  upon  you 

one  thing,  if  I  can,  that  is Silence,  meine  Herren! "  he 

called  sharply  toward  the  tenors,  who  were  giggling  inanely 
among  themselves.  "A  chorus  of  damned  souls,"  he  pro- 
ceeded composedly,  "would  not  sing  in  the  same  unrutfled 
manner  as  a  young  lady  who  warbles,  *  Spring  is  come — tra, 
la,  la!  Spring  is  come — lira,  lira! '  in  her  mamma's  drawing 
room.  Try  to  imagine  yourself  struggling  in  the  tortures  of 
hell " — a  delighted  giggle  and  a  sort  of  "  Oh,  you  dear, 
wicked  man! "  expression  on  the  part  of  the  young  ladies; 
a  nudging  of  each  other  on  that  of  the  young  gentlemen— 
*'  and  sing  as  if  you  were  damned." 

Scarcely  anyone  seemed  to  take  the  matter  the  least 
earnestly.  The  young  ladies  continued  to  giggle,  and  the 
young  gentlemen  to  nudge  each  other.  Little  enough  of  ex- 
pression, if  plenty  of  noise,  was  there  in  that  magnificent  and 
truly  difficult  passage,  the  changing  choruses  of  the  con- 
demned and  the  blessed  ones — with  its  crowning  "  Weh!  " 
thundering  down  from  highest  soprano  to  deepest  bass. 

"  Lots  of  noise,  and  no  meaning,"  observed  the  conductor^ 
leaning  himself  against  the  rail  of  the  estrade,  face  to  his 
audience,  folding  his  arms  and  surveying  them  all,  one  after 
the  other,  with  cold  self-possession.  It  struck  me  that  he 
despised  them,  while  he  condescended  to  instruct  them. 
The  power  of  the  man  struck  me  again.    I  began  to  like  him 


60  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

better.  At  least  I  venerated  his  thorougli  nnderstandiiig 
of  what  was  to  me  a  splendid  mystery.  No  softening  appeared 
in  the  master's  eyes  in  answer  to  the  rows  of  pretty  appealing 
faces  turned  to  him;  no  smile  upon  his  contemptuous  hps 
responded  to  the  eyes — black,  brown,  gray,  blue,  yellow — all 
turned  with  such  affecting  devotion  to  his  own.  Composing 
himself  to  an  insouciant  attitude,  he  began  in  a  cool,  indiffer- 
ent voice,  which  had,  however,  certain  caustic  tones  in  it 
which  stung  me  at  least  to  the  quick: 

"I  never  heard  anything  worse,  even  from  you.  My 
honored  Fraulein,  my  gnddigen  Herren,  just  try  once  to 
imagine  what  you  are  singing  about!  It  is  not  an  exercise — 
it  is  not  a  love  song;  either  of  which  you  would,  no  doubt,  per- 
form excellently.  Conceive  what  is  happening!  Put  yourself 
back  into  those  mythical  times.  Believe,  for  this  evening,  in 
the  story  of  the  forfeited  Paradise.  There  is  strife  between 
the  Blessed  and  the  Danmed;  the  obedient  and  the  disobedi- 
ent. There  are  thick  clouds  in  the  heavens — smoke,  fire,  and 
sulphur — a  clashing  of  swords  in  the  serried  ranks  of  the  an- 
gels: cannot  you  see  Michael,  Gabriel,  Eaphael,  leading  the 
heavenly  host?  Cannot  some  of  you  sympathize  a  little  with 
Satan  and  his  struggle?" 

Looking  at  him,  I  thought  they  must  indeed  be  an  un- 
imaginative set!  In  that  dark  face  before  them  was  Mephis- 
topheles  at  least — der  Geist  der  stets  verneint — if  nothing  more 
violent.  His  cool,  scornful  features  were  lighted  up  with 
some  of  the  excitement  which  he  could  not  drill  into  the 
assemblage  before  him.  Had  he  had  been  gifted  with  the 
requisite  organ,  he  would  have  acted  and  bung  the  chief  char- 
acter in  "  Faust "  con  amore. 

"  Ach,  um  Gotteswillen! "  he  went  on,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, "try  to  forget  what  you  are!  Try  to  forget  that  none 
of  you  ever  had  a  wicked  thought  or  an  unholy  aspira- 
tion  " 

("  Don't  they  see  how  he  is  laughing  at  them? "  I 
wondered.) 

"  You,  Chorus  of  the  Condemned,  try  to  conjure  up  every 
wicked  thought  you  can,  and  let  it  come  out  in  your  voices — 
you  who  sing  the  strains  of  the  blessed  ones,  think  of  what 
blessedness  is.  Surely  each  of  you  has  his  own  idea!  Somg 
of  you  may  agree  vnth.  Lenore: 

"  '  Bei  ihm,  bei  ihm  ist  Seligkeit, 
Und  ohne  "W  illielm  Hollel "     ' 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  61 

If  SO,  think  of  him;  think  of  her — only  sing  it,  whatever  it 
is.    Eemember  the  strongest  of  feelings: 

"  '  Die  Engel  nennen  es  Himmelsfreude 
Die  Teufel  nennen  es  H5llenqual, 
Die  Menschen  nennen  es — LiebeI  ' 

And  sing  it!  '■* 

He  had  not  become  loud  or  excited  in  voice  or  gesticulation, 
but  his  words,  flung  at  them  like  so  many  scornful  little  bul- 
lets, the  indifferent  resignation  of  his  attitude,  had  their 
effect  upon  the  crew  of  giggling,  simpering  girls  and  awk- 
ward, self-conscious  young  men.  Some  idea  seemed  vouch- 
safed to  them  that  perhaps  their  performance  had  not  been 
quite  all  that  it  might  have  been;  they  began  in  a  little  more 
earnest,  and  the  chorus  went  better. 

For  my  own  pprt  I  was  deeply  moved.  A  vague  excitement, 
a  wild,  and  not  altogether  a  holy  one,  had  stolen  over  me.  I 
understood,  now,  how  the  man  might  have  influence.  I  bent 
to  the  power  of  his  will,  which  reached  me  where  I  stood  in 
the  background,  from  his  dark  eyes,  which  turned  for  a  mo- 
ment to  me  now  and  then.  It  was  that  will  of  his  which  put 
me,  as  it  were,  suddenly  into  the  spirit  of  the  music,  and  re- 
vealed me  depths  in  my  own  heart  at  which  I  had  never  even 
guessed.  Excited,  with  cheeks  burning  and  my  heart  hot 
within  me,  I  followed  his  words  and  his  gestures,  and  grew  so 
impatient  of  the  dull  stupidity  of  the  others  that  tears  came 
into  my  eyes.  How  could  that  young  woman,  in  the  midst 
of  a  sublime  chorus,  deliberately  pause,  arrange  the  knot  of 
her  necktie,  and  then,  after  a  smile  and  a  side  glance  at  the 
conductor,  go  on  again  v/ith  a  more  self-Ratisfied  simper  than 
ever  upon  her  lips?  What  might  not  the  thing  be  with  a 
whole  chorus  of  sympathetic  singers!  The  very  dullness 
which  in  face  prevailed  revealed  to  me  great  regions  of  possi- 
ble splendor,  almost  too  vast  to  think  of. 

At  last  it  was  over.  I  turned  to  the  direktor,  who  was  still 
near  the  piano,  and  asked  timidly: 

"  Do  you  think  I  may  Join?    Will  my  voice  do?  " 

An  odd  expression  crossed  his  face;  he  answered  dryly: 

"You  may  join  the  verein,  mein  Frdulein — yes.  Please 
come  this  way  with  me.  Pardon,  Friiulein  Stockhausen — 
another  time.     I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  business  at  present." 

A  black  look  from  the  pretty  brunette,  Vv'ho  had  advanced 
with  an  engaging  smile  and  an  open  score  to  ask  iiuu  some 


89  THE  FIRST  YIOLUT. 

question,  greeted  this  very  composed  rebuff  of  her  advance. 
The  black  look  was  directed  at  me — guiltless. 

Without  taking  any  notice  of  the  other,  he  led  Anna  and 
me  to  a  small  inner  room,  where  there  was  a  desk  and  writing 
materials. 

"  Your  name,  if  you  will  be  good  enough?  '* 

"  Wedderburn.'' 

**  Your  Yorname,  though — ^your  first  name.'* 

"  My  Christian  name — oh!  May." 

"  M-a-na/  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  write  it  your- 
self, and  the  street  and  number  of  the  house  in  which  you 
live." 

I  complied. 

"Have  you  been  here  long?" 

**  Not  quite  a  week." 

**  Do  you  intend  to  make  any  stay?  * 

**  Some  months,  probably." 

*' Humph!  If  you  wish  to  make  any  progress  in  music, 
yon  must  stay  much  longer." 

**  It — I — it  depends  upon  other  people  how  long  I  remain." 

He  smiled  slightly,  and  his  smile  was  not  unpleasant;  it 
lighted  up  the  darkness  of  his  face  in  an  agreeable  manner. 

"  So  I  should  suppose.  I  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow  at 
four  in  the  afternoon.  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  conver- 
sation with  you  about  your  voice.    Adieu,  mdne,  Damen/' 

With  a  slight  bow,  which  sufficiently  dismissed  us,  h« 
turned  to  the  desk  again,  and  we  went  away. 

Our  homeward  walk  was  a  somewhat  silent  one.  Anna 
certainly  asked  me  suddenly  where  I  had  learned  to  sing. 

"  I  have  not  learned  properly.    I  can't  help  singing." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  voice  like  that,"  said  she  again. 

"Like  what?" 

"  Herr  von  Francius  will  teU  you  all  about  it  to-morrow/* 
said  she  abruptly. 

"  What  a  strange  man  Herr  von  Francius  is! "  said  I. 
**Is  he  clever?" 

**  Oh,  very  clever!  " 

**  At  first  I  did  not  like  him.     Now  I  think  I  do,  though.** 

She  made  no  answer  for  a  few  minutes;  then  saidi 
;    *fie  is  an  excellent  teacher." 


,  TEE  FIB8T  VIOLIN,  «3 

CHAPTER  IV. 

HEEK  VON  FKANCIUS. 

When  Miss  Hallam  heard  from  Anna  Sartorius  that  my 
singing  had  evidently  struck  Herr  von  Francius,  and  of  his 
intended  visit,  she  looked  pleased — so  pleased  that  I  was 
surprised. 

He  came  the  following  afternoon,  at  the  time  he  had  speci- 
fied. Now,  in  the  broad  daylight,  and  apart  from  his  official, 
professional  manner,  I  found  the  Herr  Direktor  still  differ- 
ent from  the  man  of  last  night,  and  yet  the  same.  He  looked 
even  younger  now  than  on  the  estrade  last  night,  and  quiet 
though  his  demeanor  was,  attuned  to  a  gentlemanly  calm  and 
evenness,  there  was  still  the  one  thing,  the  cool,  hard  glance 
left,  to  unite  him  with  the  dark,  somewhat  sinister-looking 
personage  who  had  cast  his  eyes  round  our  circle  last  night, 
and  told  us  to  sing  as  if  we  were  damned. 

"  JMiss  Hallam,  this  is  Herr  von  Francius,"  said  I.  "  He 
speaks  English,"  I  added. 

Von  Francius  glanced  from  her  to  me  with  a  somewhat  in- 
quiring expression. 

Miss  Hallam  received  him  graciously,  and  they  talked  about 
all  sorts  of  trifles,  while  I  sat  by  in  seemly  silence,  till  at  last 
Miss  Hallam  said: 

"  Can  you  give  me  any  opinion  upon  Miss  Wedderbum's 
voice?  " 

"  Scarcely,  until  I  have  given  it  another  trial.  She  seems 
to  have  had  no  training." 

*'  No,  that  is  true,"  she  said,  and  proceeded  to  inform  him 
casually  that  she  wished  me  to  have  every  advantage  I  could 
get  from  my  stay  in  Elberthal,  and  must  put  the  matter  into 
his  hands.    Von  Francius  looked  pleased. 

For  my  part  I  was  deeply  moved.  Miss  Hallam's  generosity 
to  one  so  stupid  and  ignorant  touched  me  nearly. 

Von  Francius,  pausing  a  short  time,  at  last  said: 

"  I  must  try  her  voice  again,  as  I  remarked.  Last  night  I 
was  struck  with  her  sense  of  the  dramatic  point  of  what  we 
were  singing — a  quality  which  I  do  not  too  often  find  in  my 
pupils.  I  think,  mein  Frdulein,  that  with  care  and  study  you 
might  take  a  place  on  the  stage." 


64  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  The  stage! "  I  repeated,  startled,  and  thinking  of  Cour- 
voisier's  words. 

But  Von  I'rancius  had  been  reckoning  without  his  host. 
When  Miss  Hallam  spoke  of  "  putting  the  matter  into  his 
hands,"  she  understood  the  words  in  her  own  sense. 

"The  stage!"  said  she  with  a  shght  shiver.  "That  is 
quite  out  of  the  question.  Miss  Wedderbum  is  a  young  lady 
— not  an  actress." 

"  So!  Then  it  is  impossible  to  be  both  in  your  country?  " 
said  he  with  polite  sarcasm.  "  I  spoke  as  simple  Eunstler — 
artist — I  was  not  thinking  of  anything  else.  I  do  not  think 
the  gnddiges  Frdulein  will  ever  make  a  good  singer  of  mere 
songs.  She  requires  emotion  to  bring  out  her  best  powers — 
a  little  passion — a  little  scope  for  acting  and  abandon  before 
she  can  attain  the  full  extent  of  her  talent." 

He  spoke  in  the  most  perfectly  matter-of-fact  way,  and  I 
trembled.  I  feared  lest  this  display  of  what  Miss  Hallam 
would  consider  little  short  of  indecent  laxity  and  Bohemian- 
ism,  would  shock  her  so  much  that  I  should  lose  everything  by 
it.     It  was  not  so,  however. 

"  Passion — abandon!  I  think  you  cannot  understand  what 
you  are  talking  about! "  said  she.  "  My  dear  sir,  you  must 
understand  that  those  kind  of  things  may  be  all  very  well  for 
one  set  of  people,  but  not  for  that  class  to  which  Miss  Wedder- 
bum belongs.  Her  father  is  a  clergyman" — Von  Francius 
bowed,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  see  what  that  had  to  do  with 
it — "in  short,  that  idea  is  impossible.  I  tell  you  plainly. 
She  may  learn  as  much  as  she  likes,  but  she  will  never  be 
allowed  to  go  upon  the  stage." 

"  Then  she  may  teach?  "  said  he  inquiringly. 

"  Certainly.  I  believe  that  is  what  she  wishes  to  do,  in 
case — if  necessary." 

"  She  may  teach,  but  she  may  not  act,"  said  he  reflectively. 
"  So  be  it,  then!  Only,"  he  added,  as  if  making  a  last  effort, 
"I  would  just  mention  that,  apart  from  artistic  considera- 
tions, while  a  lady  may  wear  herself  out  as  a  poorly  paid 
teacher,  a  prima  donna " 

Miss  Hallam  smiled  with  calm  disdain. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  least  use  to  spealc  of  such  a  thing.  You 
and  I  look  at  the  matter  from  quite  different  points  of  view, 
and  to  argue  about  it  would  only  be  to  waste  time." 

Von  Francius  with  a  sarcastic,  ambiguous  smile,  turned 
to  me: 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLUr.  66 

'    "^  And  you,  mein  Frdulein  ?  " 

"I — no.  I  agree  with  Miss  Hallam,"  I  murmured,  not 
really  having  found  myself  able  to  think  about  it  at  all,  but 
conscious  that  opposition  was  useless.  And,  besides,  I  did 
shrink  away  from  the  ideas  conjured  up  by  that  word,  the 
"  stage." 

"  So!  "  said  he  with  a  little  bow  and  a  half  smile.  "  Ako, 
I  must  try  to  make  the  round  man  fit  into  the  square  hole. 
The  first  thing  will  be  another  trial  of  your  voice;  then  I  must 
see  how  many  lessons  a  week  you  will  require,  and  must  give 
you  instructions  about  practicing.  You  must  understand 
that  it  is  not  pleasure  or  child's  play  which  you  are  undertak- 
ing. It  is  a  work  in  order  to  accomplish  which  you  must 
strain  every  nerve  and  give  up  everything  which  in  any  way 
interferes  with  it." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  have  time  for  it,'^  I  mur- 
mured, looking  doubtfully  toward  Miss  Hallam. 

"  Yes,  May;  you  will  have  time  for  it,"  was  all  she  said. 

"Is  there  a  piano  in  the  house?"  said  Von  Francius. 
"  But — yes,  certainly.  Fraulein  Sartorius  has  one;  she 
will  lend  it  to  us  for  half  an  hour.  If  you  are  at  liberty, 
mein  Frdulein,  just  now " 

"  Certainly,"  said  I,  following  him,  as  he  told  Miss  Hallam 
that  he  would  see  her  again. 

As  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Anna's  sitting  room  she  came 
out,  dressed  for  walking. 

"  Ach!  Frdulein!  will  you  allow  us  the  use  of  your  piano  for 
a  few  minutes?  " 

^' Bitte!"  said  she,  motioning  us  into  the  room.  "I  am 
sorry  I  have  an  engagement,  and  must  leave  you." 

"  Do  not  let  us  keep  you  on  any  account,"  said  he  with 
touching  politeness;  and  she  went  out. 

"' Desto  lesser!"  he  observed,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

He  pulled  off  his  gloves  with  rather  an  impatient  gesture, 
seated  himself  at  the  piano,  and  struck  some  chords  in  an 
annoyed  manner. 

"  Who  is  that  old  lady?  "  he  inquired,  looking  up  at  me. 
^'  Any  relation  of  yours?  " 

"No — oh,  no!     I  am  her  companion." 

"  So!  And  you  mean  to  let  her  prevent  you  from  foIlGW- 
ing  the  career  you  have  a  talent  for?  " 

"  If  I  do  not  do  as  she  wishes,  I  shall  have  no  chance  of 
following  any  career  at  all,"  said  I.    "And,  besides,  ho-s/ 


66  TKE!  FIRST  YIOLW. 

does  anyone  know  that  I  Have  a  talent — for — for — what  yon 
eay?  '* 

"  I  know  it;  that  is  why  I  said  it.  I  wish  I  could  persuade 
that  old  lady  to  my  way  of  thinking! "  he  added.  "  I  wish 
you  were  out  of  her  hands  and  in  mine.     I^al  we  shall  see!  " 

It  was  not  a  very  long  "  trial ''  that  he  gave  me;  he  soon 
rose  from  the  piano. 

"  To-morrow  at  eleven  I  come  to  give  you  a  lesson,"  said 
he.  "  I  am  going  to  talk  to  Miss  Hallam  now.  You  please 
not  come.  I  wish  to  see  her  alone;  and  I  can  manage  her 
better  by  myself,  niclit  wahr!'* 

"  Thank  you/'  said  I  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"  You  must  have  a  piano,  too,''  he  added;  *  and  we  must 
have  a  room  to  ourselves.  I  allow  no  third  person  to  be  pres- 
ent in  my  private  lessons,  but  go  on  the  principle  of  Paul 
Heyse's  hero,  Edwin,  either  in  open  lecture,  or  unter  vier 
Augen." 

With  that  he  held  the  door  open  for  me,  and  as  I  turned 
into  my  room,  shook  hands  with  me  in  a  friendly  manner, 
bidding  me  expect  hira  on  the  morrow. 

Certainly,  I  decided,  Herr  von  Francius  was  quite  unlike 
anyone  I  had  ever  seen  before;  and  how  awfully  cool  he  was 
and  self-possessed.     I  liked  him  well,  though. 

The  next  morning  Herr  von  Francius  gave  me  my  first 
lesson,  and  after  that  I  had  one  from  him  nearly  every  day. 
As  teacher  and  as  acquaintance  he  was,  as  it  were,  two  differ- 
ent men.  As  teacher  he  was  strict,  severe,  gave  much  blame 
and  little  praise;  but  when  he  did  once  praise  me,  I  remember, 
I  carried  the  remembrance  of  it  with  me  for  days  as  a  ray  of 
sunshine.  He  seemed  never  surprised  to  find  how  much  work 
had  been  prepared  for  him,  although  he  would  express  dis- 
pleasure, sometimes,  at  its  quality.  He  was  a  teacher  whom 
it  was  impossible  not  to  respect,  whom  one  obeyed  by  instinct. 
As  man,  as  acquaintance,  I  knew  little  of  him,  though  I  heard 
much — idle  tales,  which  it  would  be  as  idle  to  repeat.  They 
chiefly  related  to  liis  domineering  disposition  and  determina- 
tion to  go  his  own  way  and  disregard  that  of  others.  In  this 
fashion  my  life  became  busy  enough. 


tEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  6t 

'  CHAPTER  V. 

*'  LOHENGKIN." 

"^  !As  time  went  on,  the  image  of  Eugen  Courvoisier,  my  mi- 
spoken  of,  unguessed  at,  friend,  did  not  fade  from  my 
memory.  It  grew  stronger.  I  thougtit  of  him  every  day 
— never  went  out  without  a  distinct  hope  that  I  might  see 
him;  never  came  in  without  vivid  disappointment  that  I  had 
not  seen  him.  I  carried  three  thalers  ten  groschen  so 
arranged  in  my  purse  that  I  could  lay  my  hand  upon  them 
gt  a  moment's  notice,  for,  as  the  days  went  on,  it  appeared 
that  Herr  Courvoisier  had  not  made  up  his  accounts,  or  if  he 
had,  had  not  chosen  to  claim  that  part  of  them  owed  by  me. 

I  did  not  see  him.  I  began  dismally  to  think  that,  after 
all,  the  whole  thing  was  at  an  end.  He  did  not  live  at  Elber- 
thal — he  had  certainly  never  told  me  that  he  did,  I  reminded 
myself.  He  had  gone  about  his  business  and  interests — had 
forgotten  the  waif  he  had  helped  one  spring  afternoon,  and  I 
should  never  see  him  again.  My  heart  fell  and  sunk  with  a 
reasonless,  aimless  pang.  What  did  it,  could  it,  ought  it  to 
matter  to  me  whether  I  ever  saw  him  again  or  not?  Nothing, 
certainly,  and  yet  I  troubled  myself  about  it  a  great  deal.  I 
made  little  dramas  in  my  mind  of  how  he  and  I  were  to  meet, 
and  how  I  would  exert  my  will  and  make  him  take  the  money. 
"Whenever  I  saw  an  unusually  large  or  handsome  house,  I 
instantly  fell  to  wondering  if  it  were  his,  and  sometimes  made 
inquiries  as  to  the  owner  of  any  particular  eligible  residence. 
I  heard  of  Brauns,  Miillers,  Piepers,  Schmidts,  and  the  Hke, 
as  owners  of  the  same — never  the  name  of  Courvoisier.  He 
had  disappeared — I  feared  forever. 

Coming  in  weary  one  day  from  the  town,  where  I  had  been 
striving  to  make  myself  understood  in  shops,  I  was  met  by 
Anna  Sartorius  on  the  stairs.  She  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be 
civil  to  me — civil,  that  is,  in  her  way — and  my  unreasoning 
aversion  to  her  was  as  great  as  ever. 

"  This  is  the  last  opera  of  the  season,"  said  she,  displaying 
a  pink  ticket.  "I  am  glad  you  will  get  to  se«  one,  as  the 
theater  closes  after  to-night." 

"  But  I  am  not  going." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  IVIiss  Hallam  has  a  ticket  for  you.  I  am 
going  to  chaperon  you." 


68  TEE  FIBBT  VIOLm, 

"1  must  go  and  see  about  that,"  said  I,  tastily  rushing 
upstairs. 

The  news,  incredible  as  it  seemed,  was  quite  true.  The 
ticket  lay  there.  I  picked  it  up  and  gazed  at  it  fondly. 
Stadttheater  zu  Elberthal.  Parquet,  No.  16.  As  I  had  never 
been  in  a  theater  in  my  life,  this  conveyed  no  distinct  idea 
to  my  mind,  but  it  was  quite  enough  for  me  that  I  was  going. 
The  rest  of  the  party,  I  found,  were  to  consist  of  Vincent,  the 
Englishman,  Anna  Sartorius,  and  the  Dutch  boy.  Brinks. 

It  was  Friday  evening,  and  the  opera  was  "  Lohengrin." 
I  knew  notliing,  then,  about  different  operatic  styles,  and  my 
ideas  of  operatic  music  were  based  upon  duets  upon  selected 
airs  from  "  La  Traviata,"  "  La  Sonnambula,"  and  "  Lucia." 
I  thought  the  story  of  "  Lohengrin,"  as  related  by  Vincent, 
interesting.  I  was  not  in  the  least  aware  that  my  first  opera 
was  to  be  a  different  one  from  that  of  most  English  girls. 
Since,  I  have  wondered  sometimes  what  would  be  the  result 
upon  the  musical  taste  of  a  person  who  was  put  through  a 
course  of  Wagnerian  opera  first,  and  then  turned  over  to  the 
Italian  school — leaving  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Gluck,  to  take 
care  of  themselves,  as  they  may  very  well  do — thus  exactly 
reversing  the  usual  (English)  process. 

Anna  was  very  quiet  that  evening.  Afterward  I  knew  that 
she  must  have  been  observing  me.  We  were  in  the  first  row 
of  the  parquet,  with  the  orchestra  alone  between  us  and  the 
stage.  I  was  fully  occupied  in  looking  about  me — now  at 
the  curtain  hiding  the  great  mystery,  now  behind  and  above 
me  at  the  boxes,  in  a  youthful  state  of  ever  increasing  hope 
and  expectation. 

"  We  are  very  early,"  said  Vincent,  who  was  next  to  me, 
"very  early,  and  very  near,"  he  added,  but  he  did  not  seem 
much  distressed  at  either  circumstance. 

Then  the  gas  was  suddenly  turned  up  quite  high.  The 
bustle  increased  cheerfully.  The  old,  young,  and  middle- 
aged  ladies  who  filled  the  Logen  in  the  Erster  Bang — hard- 
ened theater-goers,  who  came  as  regularly  every  night  in  the 
week  during  the  eight  months  of  the  season  as  they  ate  their 
breakfasts  and  went  to  their  beds,  were  gossiping  with  the 
utmost  violence,  exchanging  nods  and  odd  little  old-fashioned 
bows  with  other  ladies  in  all  parts  of  the  house,  leaning 
over  to  look  whether  the  parquet  was  well  filled,  and  remark- 
ing that  there  were  more  people  in  the  Balcon  than  usual. 
The   musicians  were   dropping  into  the  orchestra.    I  waa 


THE  FIRST  YIOLUr.  «9 

Startled  to  see  a  fair  face  I  knew — that  pleasant-looMng  young 
violinist  with  brown  eyes,  whose  name  I  heard  called  out  at 
the  eye  hospital.  They  all  seemed  very  fond  of  him,  particu- 
larly a  man  who  struggled  about  with  a  violoncello,  and  who 
Beemed  to  have  a  series  of  jokes  to  relate  to  Herr  Helfen, 
exploding  with  laughter,  and  every  now  and  then  shaking 
the  loose  thick  hair  from  Ms  handsome,  genial  face.  Helfen 
listened  to  him  with  a  half  smile,  screwing  up  his  violin  and 
giving  him  a  quiet  look  now  and  then.  The  inspiring  noise 
of  tuning  up  had  begun,  and  I  was  on  the  very  tiptoe  of 
expectation. 

As  I  turned  once  more  and  looked  around,  Vincent  said, 
laughing,  "Miss  Wedderburn,  your  hat  has  hit  me  three 
times  in  the  face."  It  was,  by  the  bye,  the  brown  hat  which 
had  graced  my  ixead  that  day  at  Koln. 

"  Oh,  has  it?  I  beg  your  pardon! "  said  I,  laughing,  too, 
as  I  brought  my  eyes  again  to  bear  on  the  stage.  "  The  seats 
are  too  near  toge " 

Further  words  were  upon  my  lips,  but  they  were  never 
uttered.  In  roving  across  the  orchestra  to  the  footlights  my 
eyes  were  arrested.  In  the  well  of  the  orchestra,  immediately 
before  my  eyes,  was  one  empty  chair,  that  by  right  belonging 
to  the  leader  of  the  first  violins.  Friedhelm  Helfen  sat  in  the 
one  next  below  it.  All  the  rest  of  the  musicians  were  assem- 
bled. The  conductor  was  in  his  place,  and  looked  a  little  im- 
patiently toward  that  empty  chair.  Through  a  door  to  the 
left  of  the  orchestra  there  came  a  man  carr3dng  a  violin,  and 
made  his  way,  with  a  nod  here,  and  a  half  smile  there,  a  tap 
on  the  shoulder  in  another  direction.  Arrived  at  the  empty 
chair,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Helfen's  shoulder,  and  bending 
over  him,  spoke  to  him  as  he  seated  himself.  He  kept  his 
hand  on  that  shoulder,  as  if  he  liked  it  to  be  there.  Helfen's 
eyes  said  as  plainly  as  possible  that  he  liked  it.  Fast  friends, 
on  the  face  of  it,  were  these  two  men.  In  a  moment,  though  I 
sat  still,  motionless  and  quiet,  I  certainly  realized  as  nearly 
as  possible  that  impossible  sensation,  the  turning  upside  down 
of  the  world.  I  did  not  breathe.  I  waited,  spell-bound,  in 
the  vague  idea  that  my  eyes  might  open  and  I  find  that  I 
had  been  dreaming.  After  an  earnest  speech  to  Helfen  the 
newcomer  raised  his  head.  As  he  shouldered  his  violin  his 
eyes  traveled  carelessly  along  the  first  row  of  the  parquet — 
our  row.  I  did  not  awake:  things  did  not  melt  away  in  mist 
before  my  eyes.    He  was  Eugen  Courvoisier,  and  he  looked 


10  THE  FIRST  VIOLTN". 

braver,  handsomer,  gallanter,  and  more  apart  from  the  crowa 
of  men  now,  in  this  moment,  than  even  my  sentimental 
dreams  had  pictured  him.  I  felt  it  all — I  also  know  now  that 
it  was  partly  the  strength  of  the  feeling  that  I  had — the  very 
intensity  of  the  admiration  which  took  from  me  the  reflection 
and  reason  for  the  moment.  I  felt  as  if  everyone  must  see 
how  I  felt.  I  remembered  that  no  one  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened; I  dreaded  lest  they  should.  I  did  the  most  cowardly 
and  treacherous  thing  that  circumstances  permitted  to  me — 
displayed  to  what  an  extent  my  power  of  folly  and  stupidity 
could  carry  me.  I  saw  these  strange  bright  eyes,  whose  power 
I  felt,  coming  toward  me.  In  one  second  they  would  be  upon 
me.  I  felt  myself  white  with  anxiety.  His  eyes  were  com- 
ing— coming — slowly,  surely.  They  had  fallen  upon  Vin- 
cent, and  he  nodded  to  him.  They  fell  upon  me.  It  was 
for  the  tenth  of  a  second  only.  I  saw  a  look  of  recog- 
nition flash  into  his  eyes — upon  his  face.  I  saw  that  he  was 
going  to  bow  to  me.  With  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  all  the  blood 
in  my  veins  rushing  to  my  face,  my  head  swimming,  my 
heart  beating,  I  dropped  my  eyes  to  the  playbill  upon  my 
lap,  and  stared  at  the  crabbed  German  characters — the  names 
of  the  players,  the  characters  they  took.  *'Elsa — Lohen- 
grin." I  read  tliem  again  and  again,  while  my  ears  were 
singing,  my  heart  beating  so,  and  I  thought  everyone  in  the 
theater  knew  and  was  looking  at  me. 

"  Mind  you  listen  to  the  overture.  Miss  Wedderburn,"  said 
Vincent  hastily  in  my  ear,  as  the  first  liquid,  yearning,  long- 
drawn  notes  sounded  from  the  violins. 

*'Yes,"  said  I,  raising  my  face  at  last,  looking  or  rather 
feeling  a  look  compelled  from  me,  to  the  place  where  he  sat. 
This  time  our  eyes  met  fully.  I  do  not  know  what  I  felt 
when  I  saw  him  look  at  me  as  unrecognizingly  as  if  I  had  been 
a  wooden  doll  in  a  shop  window.  Was  he  looking  past  me? 
No.  His  eyes  met  mine  direct — glance  for  glance — not  a 
sign,  not  a  quiver  of  the  mouth,  not  a  waver  of  the  eyelids. 
I  heard  no  more  of  the  overture.  When  he  was  playing, 
and  so  occupied  with  his  music,  I  surveyed  him  surrep- 
titiously; when  he  was  not  playing,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  firmly 
upon  my  playbill.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  most  dis- 
tressed at  my  own  disloyalty  to  a  kind  friend  or  most  appalled 
to  find  that  the  man  with  whom  I  had  spent  a  whole  aftemooa 
in  the  firm  conviction  that  he  was  outwardly,  as  well  as  in- 
wardly, my  equal  and  a  gentleman — how  the  tears,  half  of 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  11 

ehame,  half  of  joy,  rise  to  my  eyes  now  as  I  think  of  my  poor, 
pedantic  little  scruples  then — the  man  of  whom  I  had 
assuredly  thought  and  dreamed  many  and  many  a  time  and 
oft,  was — a  professional  musician,  a  man  in  a  band,  a  German 
band,  playing  in  the  public  orchestra  of  a  provincial  town. 
Well!  well! 

In  our  village  at  home,  where  the  population  consisted  of 
clergymen's  widows,  daughters  of  deceased  naval  officers,  and 
old  women  in  general,  and  those  old  women  ladies  of  the 
genteelest  description — the  Army  and  the  Church  (for  which 
I  had  been  brought  up  to  have  the  deepest  veneration  and 
esteem,  as  the  two  head  powers  in  our  land — for  we  did  not 
take  Manchester,  Birmingham,  and  Liverpool  into  account  at 
Skernford) — the  Army  and  the  Church,  I  say,  look  down  a 
little  upon  Medicine  and  Law,  as  being  perhaps  more  neces- 
sary, but  less  select  factors  in  that  great  sum — the  Nation. 
Medicine  and  the  Law  looked  down  very  decidedly  upon 
commercial  wealth,  and  Commerce,  in  her  turn,  turned  up 
her  nose  at  retail  establishments,  while  one  and  all — Church 
and  Army,  Law  and  Medicine,  Commerce  in  the  gross  and 
Commerce  in  the  little — united  in  pointing  the  finger  at 
artists,  musicians,  literati,  et  id  omne  genus,  considering  them, 
with  some  few  well-known  and  orthodox  exceptions,  as 
bohemians,  and  calling  them  "  persons."  They  were  a  class 
with  whom  we  had  xnd  could  have  nothing  in  common;  so 
utterly  outside  our  life  that  we  scarcely  ever  gave  a  thought 
to  their  existence.  We  read  of  pictures,  and  wished  to  see 
them;  heard  of  musical  wonders,  and  desired  to  hear  them — 
as  pictures,  as  compositions.  I  do  not  think  it  ever  entered 
our  heads  to  remember  that  a  man  with  a  quick  life  throbbing 
in  his  veins,  with  feehngs,  hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts, 
painted  the  picture,  and  that  in  seeing  it  we  also  saw  him — 
that  a  consciousness,  if  possible  yet  more  keen  and  vivid, 
produced  the  combinations  of  sound  which  brought  tears  to 
our  eyes  when  we  heard  "  the  band  " — beautiful  abstraction 
— play  them!  Certainly  we  never  considered  the  performers 
as  anything  more  than  people  who  could  play — one  who  blew 
his  breath  into  a  brass  tube;  another  into  a  wooden  pipe;  one 
who  scraped  a  small  fiddle  with  fine  strings,  another  who 
scraped  a  big  one  with  coarse  strings. 

I  was  seventeen,  and  not  having  an  original  mind  had,  up 
to  now.  Judged  things  from  earlier  teachings  and  impressions. 
I  do  not  ask  to  beaexcused.     I  only  say  that  I  was  ignorant  as 


72  'TEE  FIRST  YIOLm, 

ever  even  a  girl  of  seventeen  was.  I  did  not  know  the  amounf 
of  art  and  culture  which  lay  among  those  rather  shabby-look- 
ing members  of  the  Elberthal  stddtische  Kapelle — did  not 
know  that  that  little  cherubic-faced  man,  who  drew  his  bow 
so  lovingly  across  his  violin,  had  played  under  Mendelssohn's 
conductorship,  and  could  tell  tales  about  how  the  master  had 
drilled  his  band,  and  what  he  had  said  about  the  first  per- 
formance of  the  "  Lobgesang/*  The  young  man  to  whom  I 
had  seen  Courvoisier  speaking  was — I  learned  it  later- — a  per- 
former to  ravish  the  senses,  a  conductor  in  the  true  sense — 
not  a  mere  man  who  waves  the  stick  up  and  down,  but  one 
who  can  put  some  of  the  meaning  of  the  music  into  his  ges- 
tures and  dominate  his  players.  I  did  not  know  that  the 
musicians  before  me  were  nearly  all  true  artists,  and  some  of 
them  undoubted  gentlemen  to  boot,  even  if  their  income 
averaged  something  under  that  of  a  skilled  Lancashire  opera- 
tive. But  even  if  I  had  known  it  as  well  as  possible,  and  had 
been  aware  that  there  could  be  nothing  derogatory  in  my 
knowing  or  being  known  by  one  of  them,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  wretched  than  1  was  in  having  been,  as  it  were, 
false  to  a  friend.  The  dreadful  thing  was,  or  ought  to  be — 
I  could  not  quite  decide  which — that  such  a  person  should 
have  been  my  friend. 

"  How  he  must  despise  me! "  I  thought,  my  cheeks  burn- 
ing, my  eyes  fastened  upon  the  playbui.  "I  owe  him  ten 
ehillings.  If  he  likes  he  can  point  me  out  to  them  all  and 
say,  *  That  is  an  English  girl — lady  I  cannot  call  her.  I  found 
her  quite  alone  and  lost  at  Koln,  and  did  all  I  could  to  help 
her.  I  saved  her  a  great  deal  of  anidety  and  inconvenience. 
She  was  not  above  accepting  my  assistance;  she  confided  her 
story  very  freely  to  me;  she  is  nothing  very  particular — has 
nothing  to  boast  of — no  money,  no  knowledge,  nothing 
superior;  in  fact,  she  is  simple  and  ignorant  to  quite  a  sur- 
prising extent;  but  she  has  just  cut  me  dead.  What  do  you 
think  of  her?"' 

Until  the  curtain  went  up,  I  sat  in  torture.  When  the 
play  began,  however,  even  my  discomfort  vanished  in  my 
wonder  at  the  spectacle.  It  was  the  first  I  had  seen.  Try  to 
picture  it,  oh,  worn-out  and  blase  frequenter  of  play  and 
opera!  Try  to  realize  the  feelings  of  an  impressionable  young 
person  of  seventeen  when  "  Lohengrin  "  was  revealed  to  hei' 
for  the  first  time — Lohengrin,  the  mystic  knight,  with  the 
glamour  of  dd  upon  him — Lohengrin  sailing  in  blue  and  sil- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  73 

ver  like  a  dream,  in  his  swan-drawn  boat,  stepping  majestic 
forth,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  of  purest  melody,  as  he  thanks 
the  bird  and  dismisses  it: 

"  Dahin,  woher  mich  trug  dein  Kahn 
Kehr  wieder  nur  zu  unserm  Glilckl 
Drum  sei  getreu  dein  Deinst  gethan, 
Leb  wohl,  leb  woiil,  mein  lieber  Schwan." 

Elsa,  with  the  wonder,  the  gratitude,  the  love,  and  alas!  the 
weakness  in  her  eyes!  The  astonished  Brabantine  men  and 
■women.  They  could  not  have  been  more  astonished  than  I 
was.  It  was  all  perfectly  real  to  me.  What  did  I  know  about 
the  stage?  To  me,  yonder  figure  in  blue  mantle  and  glitter- 
ing armor  was  Lohengrin,  the  son  of  Percivale,  not  Herr 
Siegel,  the  first  tenor  of  the  company,  who  acted  stiffly,  and 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  legs.  The  lady  in  black 
velvet  and  spangles,  who  gesticulated  in  a  comer,  was  an 
"Edelfrau"  to  me,  as  the  programme  called  her,  not  the 
-chorus  leader,  with  two  front  teeth  missing,  an  inartistically 
made-up  countenance,  and  large  feet.  I  sat  through  the  first 
act  with  my  eyes  riveted  upon  the  stage.  What  a  thrill  shot 
through  me  as  the  tenor  embraced  the  soprano,  and  warbled 
melodiously,  "Elsa,  ich  liebe  Dicli!"  My  mouth  and  eyes 
were  wide  open,  I  have  no  doubt,  till  at  last  the  curtain  fell. 
With  a  long  sigh  I  slowly  brought  my  eyes  down  and 
"Lohengrin"  vanished  like  a  dream.  There  was  Eugen 
Courvoisier  standing  up — he  had  resumed  the  old  attitude — 
was  twirling  his  mustache  and  surveying  the  company.  Some 
of  the  other  performers  were  leaving  the  orchestra  by  two  lit- 
tle doors.  If  only  he  would  go,  too!  As  I  nervously  contem- 
plated a  graceful  indifferent  remark  to  Herr  Brinks,  who  sat 
next  to  me,  I  saw  Courvoisier  step  forward.  Was  he,  could 
he  be  going  to  speak  to  me?  I  should  have  deserved  it,  I 
knew,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  should  die  under  the  ordeal.  I  sat 
pretematurally  still,  and  watched,  as  if  mesmerized,  the 
approach  of  the  musician.  He  spoke  again  to  the  young  man 
whom  I  had  seen  before,  and  they  both  laughed.  Perhaps 
he  had  confided  the  whole  story  to  him,  and  was  telling  him 
to  observe  what  he  was  going  to  do.  Then  Herr  Courvoisier 
tapped  the  young  man  on  the  shoulder  and  laughed  again, 
and  then  he  came  on.  He  was  not  looking  at  me;  he  came 
up  to  the  boarding,  leaned  his  elbow  upon  it,  and  said  ta 
Eustace  Vincent: 


74  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

*'  Good-evening:  wie  geTifs  Uinen?  " 

Vincent  held  out  his  hand.  "Very  well,  thanks.  'And 
you?     I  haven't  seen  you  lately." 

"  Then  you  haven't  been  at  the  theater  lately,"  he  laughed. 
He  never  testified  to  me  by  word  or  look  that  he  had  ever  seen 
me  before.  At  last  I  got  to  understand,  as  his  eyes  repeatedly 
fell  upon  me  without  the  slightest  sign  of  recognition,  that 
he  did  not  intend  to  claim  my  acquaintance.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  was  most  wretched  or  most  relieved  at  the  dis- 
covery. It  spared  me  a  great  deal  of  embarrassment;  it  filled 
me,  too,  with  inward  shame  beyond  all  description.  And 
then,  too,  I  was  dismayed  to  find  how  totally  I  had  mistaken 
the  position  of  the  musician.  Vincent  was  talking  eagerly  to 
him.  They  had  moved  a  little  nearer  the  other  end  of  the 
orchestra.  The  young  man,  Helfen,  had  come  up,  others  had 
joined  th.m.  I,  meanwhile,  sat  still — heard  every  tone  of 
his  voice,  and  took  in  every  gesture  of  his  head  or  his  hand, 
and  I  felt  as  I  trust  never  to  feel  again — and  yet  I  lived  in 
some  such  feeling  as  that  for  what  at  least  seemed  to  me  a 
long  time.  What  was  the  feeling  that  clutched  me — held  me 
fast — seemed  to  burn  me?  And  what  was  that  I  heard? 
Vincent  speaking: 

"  Last  Thursday  week,  Courvoisier.  Why  didn't  you  come? 
We  were  waiting  for  you?  " 

"  I  missed  the  train." 

Until  now  he  had  been  speaking  German,  but  he  said  this 
distinctly  in  English,  and  I  heard  every  word. 

"Missed  the  train?"  cried  Vincent  in  his  cracked  voice. 
"  Nonsense,  man!  Helfen,  here,  and  Alekotte  were  in  time, 
and  they  had  been  at  the  probe  as  much  as  you." 

"  I  was  detained  at  Koln,  and  couldn't  get  back  till  even- 
ing," said  he.    *'  Come  along,  Friedel;  there's  the  call-bell." 

I  raised  my  eyes — met  his.  I  do  not  know  what  expression 
was  in  mine.  His  never  wavered,  though  he  looked  _  at 
me  long  and  steadily — no  glance  of  recognition — no  sign 
still.  I  would  have  risked  the  astonishment  of  every  one 
of  them  now  for  a  sign  that  he  remembered  me.  None  was 
given. 

"  Lohengrin  "  had  no  more  attraction  for  me.  ^  I  felt  in 
pain  that  was  almost  physical,  and  weak  with  excitement  as 
at  last  the  curtain  fell  and  we  left  our  places. 

"  You  were  very  quiet,"  said  Vincent,  as  we  walked  home. 
"  Did  you  not  enjoy  it?  " 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIF.  ^5 

"Very  much,  thank  you.  It  was  very  beautiful,"  said  I 
faintly. 

"  So  Herr  Courvoisier  was  not  at  the  soiree'^  "  said  the  loud, 
rough  voice  of  Anna  Sartorius. 

"  No,"  was  all  Vincent  said. 

"Did  you  have  any  tiling  new?  Was  Herr  von  Francius 
there,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes;  he  was  there,  too." 

I  pondered.  Brinks  whistled  loudly  the  air  of  Elsa's 
"  Brautzug  "  as  we  passed  across  the  Lindenallee.  We  had 
not  many  paces  to  go.  The  lamps  were  lighted,  the  people 
were  thronging  thick  as  in  the  daytime.  The  air  was  full  of 
laughter,  talk,  wliistling,  and  humming  of  the  airs  from  the 
opera.  My  ear  strained  eagerly  through  the  confusion.  I 
could  have  caught  the  faintest  sound  of  Courvoisier's  voice 
had  it  been  there,  but  it  was  not.  And  we  came  home.  Vin- 
cent opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key,  and  said:  "It  has 
not  been  very  brilliant,  has  it?  That  tenor  is  a  stick,"  and  we 
all  went  to  our  different  rooms.  It  was  in  such  wise  that  I 
met  Eugen  Courvoisier  for  the  second  time. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

•'  Will  You  Sing  ?  " 

The  theater  season  closed  with  that  evening  on  whichi 
"  Lohengrin "  was  performed.  I  ran  no  risk  of  meeting 
Courvoisier  face  to  face  again  in  that  alarming,  sudden  man- 
ner. But  the  subject  had  assumed  diseased  proportions  in 
my  mind.  I  found  myself  confronted  with  him  yet,  and  week 
after  week.  My  business  in  Elberthal  was  music — to  learn 
as  much  music  and  hear  as  much  music  as  I  could;  wherever 
there  was  music,  there  was  also  Eugen  Courvoisier — natu- 
rally. There  was  only  one  stddtische  Kapelle  in  Elberthal. 
Once  a  week,  at  least — each  Saturday — I  saw  him,  and  he 
saw  me,  at  the  unfailing  instrumental  concert,  to  which  every- 
one in  the  house  went,  and  to  absent  myself  from  which 
would  instantly  set  everyone  wondering  what  could  be  my 
motive  for  it.  My  usual  companions  were  Clara  Steinmann, 
Vincent  (the  Englishman),  and  often  Frau  Steinmann  her- 
self. Anna  Sartorius  and  some  other  girl  students  of  art 
usually  brought  sketchbooks  and  were  far  too  much  occu' 


76  :  TEE  FIRST  VlOim. 

pied  in  making  studies  or  caricatures  of  the  audience  to  pay 
much  attention  to  the  music.  The  audience  were,  however, 
hardened;  they  were  used  to  it.  Anna  and  her  friends  were 
not  alone  in  the  practice.  There  were  a  dozen  or  more  artists, 
or  soi-disant  artists,  busily  engaged  with  their  sketchbooks. 
The  concert  room  offered  a  rich  field  to  them.  One  could, 
at  least,  be  sure  of  one  thing — that  they  were  not  taking  off 
the  persons  at  whom  they  looked  most  intently.  There  must 
be  quite  a  gallery  hidden  away  in  some  old  sketchbooks — of 
portraits  or  wicked  caricatures  of  the  audience  that  fre- 
quented the  concerts  of  the  Instrumental  Musikverein.  I 
wonder  where  they  all  are?  Who  has  them?  What  has  be- 
come of  the  light-hearted  sketchers?  I  often  recall  those 
homely  Saturday  evening  concerts;  the  long,  shabby  saa], 
with  its  faded,  out-of-date  decorations;  its  rows  of  small 
tables,  with  the  well-known  groups  around  then;  the 
mixed  and  motley  audience.  How  easy,  after  a  little  while, 
to  pick  out  the  English,  by  their  look  of  complacent  pleasure 
at  the  delightful  ease  and  unceremoniousness  of  the  whole 
affair;  their  gladness  at  finding  a  public  entertainment  where 
one's  clothes  were  not  obliged  to  be  selected  with  a  view  to 
outshining  those  of  everyone  else  in  the  room;  the  students 
shrouded  in  a  mystery,  secret  and  impenetrable,  of  tobacco 
smoke.  The  spruce-looking  schoolboys  from  the  Gjrmnasium 
and  Realschule,  the  old  captains  and  generals,  the  Fraulein 
their  daughters,  the  gnddigen  Frautn  their  wives;  dressed  in 
the  disastrous  plaids,  checks,  and  stripes,  which,  somehow,  none 
but  German  v/omen  ever  get  hold  of.  Shades  of  Le  FoUet! 
Wliat  costumes  there  were  on  young  and  old  for  an  observing 
eye!  What  bonnets,  what  boots,  what  stupendously  daring 
accumulation  of  colors  and  styles  and  periods  of  dress 
crammed  and  piled  on  the  person  of  on*  substantial  Fran 
Generalin,  or  Doctorin,  or  ProfessorinI  The  low  orchestra — 
the  tall,  slight,  yet  commanding,  figure  of  Von  Francius  on 
the  estrade;  his  dark  face,  with  its  indescribable  mixture  of 
pride,  impenetrability,  and  insouciance;  the  musicians  be- 
hind him — every  face  of  them  well  known  to  the  audience, 
as  those  of  the  audience  to  them.  It  was  not  a  mere  "  con- 
cert," which,  in  England,  is  another  word  for  so  much  expense 
and  so  much  vanity — it  was  a  gathering  of  friends.  We  knew 
the  music  in  which  the  Kapelle  was  most  at  home;  we  knew 
their  strong  points  and  their  weak  ones;  the  passage  in  the 
Pastoral  Symphony,  where  the  second  violins  were  a  little 


THE  FIRST  YIOLm.  V7 

weak;  that  overture  where  the  blaseninstrumente  came  out 
so  well — the  symphonies  one  heard — the  divine  wealth  of 
undying  art  and  beauty!  Those  days  are  past:  despite  what 
I  suffered  in  them,  they  had  their  joys  for  me.  Yes;  I  suf- 
fered at  those  concerts.  I  must  ever  see  the  one  face  which 
for  me  blotted  out  all  others  in  the  room,  and  endure  the 
silent  contempt  which  I  believed  I  saw  upon  it.  Probably  it 
was  my  own  feeling  of  inward  self-contempt  which  mads  me 
believe  I  saw  that  expression  there.  His  face  had  for  me  a 
miserable,  basilisk-like  attraction.  When  I  was  there,  he  was 
there;  I  must  look  at  him,  and  endure  the  silent,  smiling  dis- 
dain which  I  at  least  believed  he  bestowed  upon  me.  How 
did  he  contrive  to  do  it?  How  often  our  eyes  met,  and  every 
time  it  happened  he  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  never 
would  give  me  the  faintest  gleam  of  recognition!  It  was  as 
though  I  looked  at  two  diamonds,  which  returned  my  stare 
unwinkingly  and  unseeingly.  I  managed  to  make  myself 
thoroughly  miserable — pale  and  thin  with  anxiety  and  self- 
reproach.  I  let  this  man,  and  the  speculation  concerning 
him,  take  up  my  whole  thoughts,  and  I  kept  silence,  because  I 
dreaded  so  intensely  lest  any  question  should  bring  out  the 
truth.  I  smiled  drearily  when  I  thought  that  there  certainly 
was  no  danger  of  anyone  but  Miss  Hallam  ever  knowing  it, 
for  the  only  person  who  could  have  betrayed  me  chose  now, 
of  deliberate  purpose,  to  cut  me  as  completely  as  I  had  once 
cut  him. 

As  if  to  show  very  decidedly  that  he  did  intend  to  cut 
me,  I  met  him  one  day,  not  in  the  street,  but  in  the  house, 
on  the  stairs.  He  sprung  up  the  steps,  two  at  a  time,  came 
to  a  momentary  pause  on  the  landing,  and  looked  at  me.  No 
look  of  surprise;  none  of  recognition.  He  raised  his  hat; 
that  was  nothing;  in  ordinary  politeness  he  would  have  done 
it  had  he  never  seen  me  in  his  life  before.  The  same  cold, 
bright,  hard  glance  fell  upon  me,  keen  as  an  eagle's,  and  as 
devoid  of  every  gentle  influence  as  the  same. 

I  silently  held  out  my  hand. 

He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a  grave  coolness 
which  chilled  me  to  the  soul,  murmured  something  about 
''not  having  the  honor,"  bowed  slightly,  and,  stepping  for- 
ward, walked  into  Vincent's  room. 

I  was  going  to  the  room  in  which  my  piano  stood,  where 
I  had  my  music  lessons,  for  they  had  told  me  that  Herr  von 
Franeius  was  waiting.    I  looked  at  him  as  I  went  into  the 


78  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

room.  How  different  he  was  from  that  other  man;  darker, 
more  secret,  more  scornful  looking,  with  not  less  power,  but 
BO  much  less  benevolence. 

I  was  distrait,  and  sung  exceedingly  ill.  We  had  been 
going  through  the  solo  soprano  parts  of  the  "  Paradise  Lost.'' 
I  believe  I  sung  vilely  that  morning.  I  was  not  thinking  of 
Eva's  sin  and  the  serpent,  but  of  other  things,  which,  despite 
the  story  related  in  the  book  of  Genesis,  touched  me  more 
nearly.  Several  times  already  had  he  made  me  sing  through 
Eva's  stammering  answer  to  her  God's  question: 

"  Ah.  Lord  !  .  ,  .     The  Serpent ! 
The  beautiful,  glittering  Serpent, 
He,  Lord,  did  lead  astray 
With  his  beautiful,  glittering  words. 
The  weak  Woman  ! " 

"  Bah!  "  exclaimed  Von  Francius,  when  I  had  sung  it  some 
three  or  four  times,  each  time  worse,  each  time  more  dis- 
tractedly. He  flung  the  music  upon  the  floor,  and  his  eyes 
flashed,  startling  me  from  my  uneasy  thoughts  back  to  the 
present.  He  was  looking  at  me  with  a  dark  cloud  upon  his 
face.    I  stared,  stooped  meekly,  and  picked  up  the  music. 

"  Fraulein,  what  are  you  dreaming  about?  "  he  asked  im- 
patiently. "  You  are  not  singing  Eva's  shame  and  dawning 
terror  as  she  feels  herself  undone.  You  are  singing — and 
badly,  too — a  mere  sentimental  song,  such  as  any  schoolgirl 
might  stumble  through.    I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

"  I — I,"  stammered  I,  crimsoning,  and  ashamed  for  my- 
self, too. 

"  You  were  thinking  of  something  else,"  he  said,  his  brow 
clearing  a  little.  "  Na!  it  comes  so  sometimes.  Something 
has  happened  to  distract  your  attention.  The  amiable  Miss 
Hallam  has  been  a  little  more  amiable  than  usual." 

"  Kg." 

"Well,  well!  ^8  ist  mir  egal.  But  now,  as  you  have 
waeted  half  an  hour  in  vanity  and  vexation,  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  let  your  thoughts  return  here  to  me  and  to  your 
duty?  Or  else — I  must  go,  and  leave  the  lesson  till  you  are 
in  the  right  voice  again." 

"  I  am  all  right — try  me,"  said  I,  my  pride  rising  in  arms 
as  I  thought  of  Courvoisier's  behavior  a  short  time  ago. 

^'  Very  well.  Now,  you  are  Eva,  please  remember,  the  first 
woman,  and  you  have  gone  wrong.  Think  of  who  is  ques- 
tioning you,  and " 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  19 

r  *^  Oh,  yes?  yes!  I  know.    Please  begin." 

He  began  the  accompaniment,  and  I  sang  for  the  fifth  time 
Eva's  scattered  notes  of  shame  and  excuse. 

"  Brava!  "  said  he  when  I  had  finished,  and  I  was  the  more 
startled  as  he  had  never  before  given  me  the  faintest  sign  of 
approval,  but  had  found  such  constant  fault  with  me  that  I 
usually  had  a  fit  of  weeping  after  my  lesson;  weeping  with 
rage  and  disappointment  at  my  own  shortcomings. 

"  At  last  you  know  what  it  means,"  said  he.  "  I  always 
toid  you  your  forte  was  dramatic  singing." 

"  Dramatic!    But  this  is  an  oratorio." 

"It  may  be  called  an  oratorio,  but  it  is  a  drama  all  the 
same.  What  more  dramatic,  for  instance,  than  what  you 
have  just  sung,  and  all  that  goes  before?  Now,  suppose  we 
go  on.    I  will  take  Adam." 

Having  given  myself  up  to  the  music,  I  sung  my  best  with 
earnestness.  When  we  had  finished  Von  Francius  closed  the 
book,  looked  at  me,  and  said: 

"  Will  you  sing  the  '  Eva '  music  at  the  concert?  " 

"I?" 

He  bowed  silently,  and  still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  my 
face,  as  if  to  say,  "  Eefuse,  if  you  dare." 

"  I — I'm  afraid  I  should  make  such  a  mess  of  it,"  I  mur- 
mured at  last. 

"  Why  any  more  than  to-day?  " 

"  Oh!  but  all  the  people!  "  said  I,  expostulating.  "  It  is  so 
different." 

He  gave  a  little  laugh  of  some  amusement. 

"How  odd!  and  yet  how  like  you!"  said  he.  "Do 
you  suppose  that  the  people  who  will  be  at  the  concert 
will  be  half  as  much  alive  to  your  defects  as  I  am?  If 
you  can  sing  before  me,  surely  you  can  sing  before  so  many 
rows  of ^" 

"  Cabbages?    I  wish  I  could  think  they  were." 

"Nonsense!  What  would  be  the  use,  where  the  pleasure, 
in  singing  to  cabbages?  I  mean  simply  inhabitants  of  Elber- 
thal.    What  can  there  be  so  formidable  about  them?  " 

I  murmured  something. 

"Well,  will  you  doit?" 

"I  am  sure  I  should  break  down,"  said  I,  trying  to  find 
some  sign  of  relenting  in  his  eyes.  I  discovered  none.  He 
was  not  waiting  to  hear  whether  I  said  "  Yes "  or  "  No  "jj 
h&  was  waiting  until  I  said  "  Yes " 


80  TEE  FIJRST  VIOLm. 

"  If  you  did,"  he  replied  with,  a  friendly  smile^  "  I  should 
never  teach  you  another  note/'  ; 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  would  be  a  coward,  and  not  worth  teaching." 

"But  Miss  Hallam?" 

*' Leave  her  to  me." 

I  still  hesitated. 

" It  is  the  premier  pas  qui  coute"  said  he,  still  keeping  a 
friendly,  hut  determined,  gaze  upon  my  undecided  face. 

"I  want  to  accustom  you  to  appearing  in  public,"  he 
added.  "  By  degrees,  you  know.  There  is  nothing  unusual 
in  Germany  for  one  in  your  position  to  sing  in  such  a 
concert." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that;  but  that  it  is  impossible  that 
I  can  sing  well  enough " 

"  You  sing  well  enough  for  my  purpose.  You  will  be 
amazed  to  find  what  an  impetus  to  your  studies,  and  what  a 
filhp  to  your  industry,  will  be  given  by  once  singing  before 
a  number  of  other  people.    And  then,  on  the  stage ^" 

*'  But  I  am  not  going  on  the  stage." 

"  I  think  you  are.  At  least,  if  you  do  otherwise,  you  will 
do  wrong.  You  have  gifts  which  are  in  themselves  a  re- 
sponsibility." 

"  I — gifts — what  gifts?  "  I  asked  incredulously.  "  I  am 
as  stupid  as  a  donkey.  My  sisters  always  said  so,  and  sisters 
are  sure  to  know;  you  may  trust  them  for  that." 

"  Then  you  will  take  the  soprano  solos?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  can?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  can;  I  say  you  must.  I  will  call  upon 
Miss  Hallam  this  afternoon.  And  the  gage — ^fee — what  you 
call  it? — is  fifty  thalers." 

"  What! "  I  cried,  my  whole  attitude  changing  to  one  of 
greedy  expectation.    "Shall  I  be  paid?" 

"  Why,  natiirlich"  said  he,  turning  over  sheets  of  music 
and  averting  his  face  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  Oh!  then  I  will  sing." 

"  Good!  Only,  please  to  remember  that  it  is  my  concert, 
and  I  am  responsible  for  the  soloists;  and  pray  think  rather 
more  about  the  beautiful,  glittering  serpent  than  about  the 
beautiful,  glittering  thalers." 

"I  can  think  about  both,"  was  my  unholy,  time-serving 
reply. 

Fifty  thalers.    Untold  goldl 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm  81 

CHAPTER  VII. 
*•  Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Ritter.** 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  haupt-probe,  a  fine,  moonlight 
night  in  the  middle  of  May — a  month  since  I  had  come  to 
Elberthal,  and  it  seemed  so  much,  so  very  much  more. 

To  my  astonishment — and  far  from  agreeable  astonish- 
ment— Anna  Sartorius  informed  me  of  her  intention  to  ac- 
company me  to  the  probe.  I  put  objections  in  her  way  as 
well  as  I  knew  how,  and  said  I  did  not  think  outsiders  were 
admitted.    She  laughed,  and  said: 

"  That  is  too  funny,  that  you  should  instruct  me  in  such 
things.  Why,  I  have  a  ticket  for  all  the  proben,  as  anyone 
can  have  who  chooses  to  pay  two  thalers  at  the  sasse.  I  have 
a  mind  to  hear  this.  They  say  the  orchestra  are  going  to 
rebel  against  Von  Franeius.  And  I  am  going  to  the  concert 
to-morrow,  too.  One  cannot  hear  too  much  of  such  fine 
music;  and  when  one's  friend  sings,  too " 

"  What  friend  of  yours  is  going  to  sing? "  I  inquired 
coldly. 

"  Why,  you,  you  allerliehster  Jcleiner  Engel,"  said  she,  in  a 
tone  of  familiarity  to  wliich  I  strongly  objected. 

I  could  say  no  more  against  her  going,  but  certainly  dis- 
played no  enthusiastic  desire  for  her  company. 

The  probe,  we  found,  was  to  be  in  the  great  saal;  it  was 
half  lighted,  and  there  were  perhaps  some  fifty  people,  holders 
of  probe  tickets,  seated  in  the  parquet. 

"  You  are  going  to  sing  well  to-night,"  said  Von  Franeius, 
as  he  handed  me  up  the  steps — "for  my  sake  and  your 
own,  nicht  wahr?  " 

"  I  will  tr}%"  said  I,  looking  round  the  great  orchestraj 
and  seeing  how  full  it  was — so  many  fresh  faces,  both  in 
chorus  and  orchestra. 

And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  Courvoisier  come  in  by  the  little 
door  at  the  top  of  the  orchestra  steps  and  descend  to  his 
place.  His  face  was  clouded — very  clouded.  I  had  never 
seen  him  look  thus  before.  He  had  no  smile  for  those  who 
greeted  him.  As  he  took  his  place  beside  Helfen,  and  the 
latter  asked  him  some  question,  he  stared  absently  at  him, 
then  answered  with  a  look  of  absence  and  weariness. 

*'  Herr  Courvoisier,"  said  Von  Franeius — and  I,  being  near, 


83  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

heard  the  whole  dialogue — *'  you  always  allow  yourseK  to  he 
waited  for." 

Courvoisier  glanced  up.  I,  with  a  new,  sudden  interest, 
"watched  the  behavior  of  the  two  men.  In  the  face  of  Von 
Francius  I  thought  to  discover  dislike,  contempt. 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  I  was  detained,"  answered  Cour- 
voisier composedly. 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  you  should  be  so  often  detained  at 
the  time  when  your  work  should  be  beginning." 

Unmoved  and  unchanging,  Courvoisier  heard  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  words  and  to  the  tone  in  which  they  were 
spoken — sarcastic,  sneering,  and  unbelieving. 

"  Now  we  will  begin,"  pursued  Von  Francius,  with  a  dis- 
agreeable smile,  as  he  rapped  with  his  baton  upon  the  rail. 
I  looked  at  Courvoisier — ^looked  at  his  friend,  Friedhelm 
Helfen.  The  former  was  sitting  as  quietly  as  possible,  rather 
pale,  and  with  the  same  clouded  look,  but  not  deeper  than 
before;  the  latter  was  flushed,  and  eyed  Von  Francius  with 
no  friendly  glance. 

There  seemed  a  kind  of  slumbering  storm  in  the  air. 
There  was  none  of  the  lively  discussion  usual  at  the  proben. 
Courvoisier,  first  of  the  first  violins,  and  from  whom  all  the 
others  seemed  to  take  their  tone,  sat  silent,  grave,  and  still. 
Von  Francius,  though  quiet,  was  biting.  I  felt  afraid  of  him. 
Something  must  have  happened  to  put  him  into  that  evil 
mood. 

My  part  did  not  come  until  late  in  the  second  part  of  the 
oratorio.  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  was  to  sing  at  all, 
and  was  watching  Von  Francius,  and  listening  to  his  sharp 
speeches.  I  remembered  what  Anna  Sartorius  had  said  in 
describing  this  haupt-probe  to  me.  It  was  all  just  as  she 
had  said.  He  was  severe;  his  speeches  roused  the  phleg- 
matic blood,  set  the  professional  instrumentalists  laughing 
at  their  amateur  co-operators,  but  provoked  no  reply  or  re- 
sentment. It  was  extraordinary,  the  effect  of  this  man's 
will  upon  those  he  had  to  do  with — ^upon  women  in  par- 
ticular. 

There  was  one  haughty-looldng  blonde — a  Swede — ^tall, 
majestic,  with  long  yellow  curls  and  a  face  full  of  pride  and 
high  temper,  who  gave  herself  decided  airs,  and  trusted  to 
her  beauty  and  insolence  to  carry  off  certain  radical  defects 
of  harshness  of  voice  and  want  of  ear.  I  never  forgot  how 
€he  stared  me  down  from  head  to  foot  on  the  occasion  of  mj 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  83 

first  appearance  alone,  as  if  to  say,  "What  do  you  want 
here?" 

It  was  in  vain  that  she  looked  haughty  and  handsome. 
Addressing  her  as  Fraulein  Hulstrom,  Von  Francius  gave 
her  a  sharp  lecture,  and  imitated  the  effect  of  her  voice  in 
a  particularly  soft  passage  with  ludicrous  accuracy.  The 
rest  of  the  chorus  was  tittering  audibly,  the  musicians,  with 
the  exception  of  Courvoisier  and  his  friend,  nudging  each 
other  and  smiling.  She  bridled  haughtily,  flashed  a  furious 
glance  at  her  mentor,  grew  crimson,  received  a  sarcastic  smile 
which  baffled  her,  and  subsided  again. 

So  it  was  with  them  all.  His  blame  was  plentiful;  his 
praise  so  rare  as  to  be  almost  an  unknown  quantity.  His 
chorus  and  orchestra  were  famed  for  the  minute  perfection 
and  precision  of  their  playing  and  singing.  Perhaps  the  per- 
formance lacked  something  else — passion,  color.  Von  Fran- 
cius, at  that  time  at  least,  was  no  genius,  though  his  talent, 
his  power,  and  his  method  were  undeniably  great.  He  was, 
however,  not  popular — not  the  Harold,  the  "  beloved  leader  " 
of  his  people. 

It  was  to-night  that  I  was  first  shown  how  all  was  not 
smooth  for  him;  that  in  this  art  union  there  were  splits — 
"little  rifts  within  the  lute,"  which,  should  they  extend, 
might  literally  in  the  end  "  make  the  music  mute."  I  heard 
whispers  around  me.  "  Herr  von  Francius  is  angry." — 
"  NicU  waJir?" — ^'^Herr  Courvoisier  looks  angry,  too." — 
"  Yes,  he  does." — "  There  will  be  an  open  quarrel  there 
soon." — "  I  think  so." — "  They  are  both  clever;  one  should 
be  less  clever  than  the  other." — "  They  are  so  opposed." — 
"  Yes.  They  say  Courvoisier  has  a  party  of  his  own,  and  that 
all  the  orchestra  are  on  his  side." — "  So!  "  in  accents  of  curi- 
osity and  astonishment. — "  Ja  wohl!  And  that-if  Von  Fran- 
cius does  not  mind,  he  will  see  Herr  Courvoisier  in  his  place," 
etc.,  etc.,  without  end.  All  which  excited  me  much,  as  the 
first  glimpse  into  the  affairs  of  those  about  whom  we  think 
much  and  know  little  (a  form  of  life  well  known  to  women 
in  general)  always  does  interest  us. 

These  things  made  me  forget  to  be  nervous  or  anxious. 
I  saw  myself  now  as  part  of  the  whole,  a  unit  in  the  sum  of 
a  life  which  interested  me.  Von  Francius  gave  me  a  sign 
of  approval  when  I  had  finished,  but  it  was  a  mechanical  one. 
He  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

The  probe  was  over.    I   walked  slowly  down  the  room, 


84  THE  FIBST  YIOLm, 

looMng  for  Anna  Sartorius,  more  out  of  politeness  than 
because  I  wished  for  her  company.  I  was  reheved  to  find 
that  she  had  already  gone,  probably  not  finding  all  the  enter- 
tainment she  expected,  and  I  was  able,  with  a  good  conscience, 
to  take  my  way  home  alone. 

My  way  home!  Not  yet.  I  was  to  live  through  something 
before  I  could  take  my  way  home. 

I  went  out  of  the  large  saal  through  the  long  veranda 
into  the  street.  A  flood  of  moonlight  silvered  it.  There  was 
a  laughing,  chattering  crowd  about  me — all  the  chorus,  men 
and  girls,  going  to  their  homes  or  their  lodgings,  in  ones  or 
twos,  or  in  large,  cheerful  groups.  Almost  opposite  the  Ton- 
halle  was  a  tall  house,  one  of  a  row,  and  of  this  house  the 
lowest  floor  was  used  as  a  shop  for  antiquities,  curiosities, 
and  a  thousand  odds  and  ends  useful  or  beautiful  to 
artists — costumes,  suits  of  armor,  old  china,  anything  and 
everything.  The  window  was  yet  lighted.  As  I  paused  for 
a  moment,  before  taking  my  homeward  way,  I  saw  two  men 
cross  the  moonlit  street,  and  go  in  at  the  open  door  of  the 
shop.  One  was  Courvoisier;  in  the  other  I  thought  to  recog- 
nize Friedhelm  Helfen,  but  was  not  quite  sure  about  it.  They 
did  not  go  into  the  shop,  as  I  saw  by  the  bright,  large  lamp 
that  burned  within,  but  along  the  passage  and  up  the  stairs. 
I  followed  them,  resolutely  beating  down -'.shyness,  unwilling- 
ness, timidity.  My  reluctant  steps  took  me  to  the  window 
of  the  antiquity  shop,  and  I  stood  looking  in  before  I  could 
make  up  my  mind  to  enter.  Bits  of  rococo  ware  stood  in  the 
window,  majolica  jugs,  chased  metal  dishes  and  bowls,  bits 
of  Eenaissance  work,  tapestry,  carpet,  a  helm  with  the  visor 
up,  gaping  at  me  as  if  tired  of  being  there.  I  slowly  drew 
my  purse  from  my  pocket,  put  together  three  thalers  and  a 
ten-groschen  piece,  and,  with  lingering,  unwilling  steps,  en- 
tered the  shop.  A  pretty  young  woman  in  a  quaint  dress, 
which  somehow  harmonized  with  the  place,  came  for- 
ward. She  looked  at  me  as  if  wondering  what  I  could  pos- 
sibly want.  My  very  agitation  gave  calmness  to  my  voice  as 
I  inquired: 

"Does  Herr  Courvoisier,  a  musiker,  live  here?" 

"  Ja  ivoM!"  answered  the  young  woman,  with  a  look  of 
still  greater  surprise.  "  On  the  third  etage,  straight  upstairs. 
The  name  is  on  the  door." 

I  turned  away,  and  went  slowly  up  the  steep  wooden,  uncar- 
peted  staircase.    On  the  first  landing  a  door  opened  at  the 


'  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  85 

sound  of  my  footsteps,  and  a  head  was  popped  oat — a  rough, 
fuzzy  head,  with  a  pale,  eager-looking  face  under  the  bush 
of  hair. 

"  Ugh! "  said  the  owner  of  this  amiable  visage,  and  shut 
the  door  with  a  bang.  I  looked  at  the  plate  upon  it;  it  bore 
the  legend,  "Hermann  Duntze,  Maler."  To  the  second 
etage.  Another  door — another  plate,  "  Bernhardt  Knoop, 
Maler."  The  house  seemed  to  be  a  res»rt  of  artists.  There 
was  a  lamp  burning  on  each  landing;  and  now,  at  last,  with 
breath  and  heart  ahke  failing,  I  ascended  the  last  flight  of 
stairs,  and  found  myself  upon  the  highest  etage  before  an- 
other door,  on  which  was  roughly  painted  up,  "  Eugen  Cour- 
voisier."  I  looked  at  it  with  my  heart  beating  suffocatingly. 
Someone  had  scribbled  in  red  chalk  beneath  the  Christian 
name,  "  Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Eitter."  Had  it  been  done  in 
jest  or  earnest?  I  wondered,  and  then  knocked.  Such  a 
knock! 

''Herein!'' 

I  opened  the  door,  and  stepped  into  a  large,  long,  low 
room.  On  the  table,  in  the  center,  burned  a  lamp,  and, 
sitting  there,  with  the  light  falling  upon  his  earnest  young 
face,  was  Helfen,  the  violinist,  and  near  to  him  sat  Cour- 
voisier,  with  a  child  upon  his  knee,  a  little  lad,  with  immense 
dark  eyes,  tumbled  black  hair,  and  flushed,  just  awakened 
face.  He  was  clad  in  his  nightdress  and  a  little  red  dressing 
gown,  and  looked  like  a  spot  of  almost  feverish,  quite  tropic, 
brightness,  in  contrast  with  the  grave,  pale  face  which  bent 
over  him.  Courvoisier  held  the  two  delicate  little  hands  in 
one  of  his  own,  and  was  looking  down  with  love  unutterable 
upon  the  beautiful,  dazzling,  child-face.  Despite  the  differ- 
ent complexion,  and  a  different  style  of  feature,  too,  there 
was  so  great  a  likeness  in  the  two  faces,  particularly  in  the 
broad,  noble  brow,  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  the  relationship. 
My  musician  and  the  boy  were  father  and  son. 

Courvoisier  looked  up  as  I  came  in.  For  one  half  moment 
there  leaped  into  liis  eyes  a  look  of  surprise  and  of  something 
more.  If  it  had  lasted  a  second  longer,  I  could  have  sworn 
it  was  welcome — then  it  was  gone.  He  rose,  turned  the  child 
over  to  Helfen,  saying,  "  One  moment,  Friedel,"  then  turned 
to  me  as  to  some  stranger  who  had  come  on  an  errand  as  yet 
unknown  to  him,  and  did  not  speak.  The  little  one,  from 
Helfen's  knee,  stared  at  me  with  large,  solemn  eyes,  and 
Helfen  himself  looked  scarcely  less  impressed. 


86  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

I  have  no  doubt  I  looked  frightened — I  felt  so — frightened 
out  of  my  senses.  I  came  tremulously  forward,  and,  offering 
my  pieces  of  silver,  said,  in  the  smallest  voice  which  I  had 
ever  used: 

"  I  have  come  to  pay  my  debt.  I  did  not  know  where  you, 
lived,  or  I  should  have  done  it  long  before."  ' 

He  made  no  motion  to  take  the  money,  but  said — ^I  almost 
started,  so  altered  was  the  voice  from  that  of  my  frank  com- 
panion at  Koln,  to  an  icy  coldness  of  ceremony:  ' 

"  Mein  Frdulein,  I  do  not  understand." 

"  You — ^you — the  things  you  paid  for.  Do  you  not  remem- 
ber me?" 

"  Remember  a  lady  who  has  intimated  that  she  wishes  me 
to  forget  her?    No;  I  do  not." 

"What  a  horribly  complicated  revenge!  thought  I,  as  I 
said,  ever  lower  and  lower,  more  and  more  shamefacedly, 
wliile  the  young  violinist  sat  with  the  cliild  upon  his  knee, 
and  his  soft,  brown  eyes  staring  at  me  in  wonder: 

"  I  think  you  must  remember.  You  helped  me  at  Koln, 
and  you  paid  for  my  ticket  to  Elberthal,  and  for  something 
that  I  had  at  the  hotel.  You  told  me  that  was  what  I  owed 
you." 

I  again  tendered  the  money;  again  he  made  no  effort  to 
receive  it,  but  said: 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  do  not  understand  to  what  you  refer. 
I  only  know  that  it  is  impossible  that  I  could  ever  have  told 
you  you  owed  me  three  thalers,  or  three  an}i;hing,  or  that 
there  could,  under  any  circumstances,  be  any  question  of 
money  between  you  and  me.  Suppose  we  consider  the  topic 
at  an  end." 

Such  a  voice  of  ice,  and  such  a  manner,  to  chill  the  boldest 
heart,  I  had  never  yet  encountered.  The  cool,  unspeakable 
disdain  cut  me  to  the  quick. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  refuse  the  money,"  said  I  desper- 
ately.   **  You  have  no  right  to  insult  me  by — by "    An 

appropriate  peroration  refused  itself. 

Again  the  sweet,  proud,  courteous  smile;  not  only  cour- 
teous, but  courtly;  again  the  icy  little  bow  of  the  head,  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  prince  in  displeasure,  and  which 
yet  had  the  deference  due  from  a  gentleman  to  a  lady. 

"You  will  excuse  the  semblance  of  rudeness  which  may 
appear  if  I  say  that,  if  you  unfortunately  are  not  of  a  very 
decided  disposition,  I  am.    It  is  impossible  that  I  should  ever 


THE  FIBST  VIOLUr.  87 

have  the  slightest  intercourse  with  a  lady  who  has  once  un- 
equivocally refused  my  acquaintance.  The  lady  may  honor 
me  by  changing  her  mind;  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  respond. 
I  do  not  change  my  mind." 

"  You  must  let  us  part  on  equal  terms,"  I  reiterated.  "  It 
is  unjust " 

"  Yourself  closed  all  possibility  of  the  faintest  attempt 
at  further  acquaintance,  man  Frdulein.  The  matter  is  at 
an  end." 

"  Herr  Courvoisier,  I " 

"  At  an  end,"  he  repeated  calmly,  gently,  looking  down  at 
me  as  he  had  often  looked  at  me  since  the  night  of  "  Lohen- 
grin," with  a  glance  that  baffled  and  chilled  me. 

"  I  wish  to  apologize " 

"  For  what?  "  he  inquired  with  the  faintest  possible  look 
of  indifferent  surprise. 

"  For  my  rudeness — my  surprise — I " 

"You  refer  to  one  evening  at  the  opera.  You  exercised 
your  privilege,  as  a  lady,  of  closing  an  acquaintance  which 
you  did  not  wish  to  renew.  I  now  exercise  mine,  as  a  gen- 
tleman, of  saying  that  I  choose  to  abide  by  that  decision, 
now  and  always." 

I  was  surprised.  Despite  my  own  apologetic  frame  of 
mind,  I  was  surprised  at  his  hardness;  at  the  narrowness  and 
ungenerosity  wliich  could  so  determinedly  shut  the  door  in 
the  face  of  a  humble  penitent  like  me.  He  must  see  how  I 
had  repented  the  stupid  shp  I  had  made;  he  must  see  how  I 
desired  to  atone  for  it.  It  was  not  a  slip  of  the  kind  one 
would  name  irreparable,  and  yet  he  behaved  to  me  as  if  I  had 
committed  a  crime;  froze  me  with  looks  and  words.  Was  he 
so  self-conscious  and  so  vain  that  he  could  not  get  over  that 
small  slight  to  his  self-consequence,  committed  in  haste  and 
confusion  by  an  ignorant  girl?  Even  then — even  in  that 
moment — I  asked  myself  these  questions,  my  astonishment 
being  almost  as  great  as  my  pain,  for  it  was  the  very  reverse, 
the  very  opposite  of  what  I  had  pictured  to  myself.  Once 
let  me  see  him  and  speak  to  him,  I  had  said  to  myself,  and  it 
would  be  all  right;  every  lineament  of  Ms  face,  every  tone 
of  his  voice,  bespoke  a  frank,  generous  nature — one  that  could 
forgive.     Alas!  and  alas!  this  was  the  truth! 

He  had  come  to  the  door;  he  stood  by  it  now,  holding  it 
open,  looking  at  me  so  courteously,  so  deferentially,  with  a 
manner  of  one  who  had  been  a  gentleman  and  Uved  with 


88  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

gentlemen  all  his  life,  but  in  a  way  which,  at  the  same  time, 
ordered  me  out  as  plainly  as  possible. 

I  went  to  the  door.  I  could  no  longer  stand  imder  that 
chilling  glance,  nor  endure  the  cool,  polished  contempt  of  the 
manner.  I  behaved  by  no  means  heroically;  neither  flung  my 
head  back,  nor  muttered  any  defiance,  nor  in  any  way  proved 
myself  a  person  of  spirit.  All  I  could  do  was  to  look  appeal- 
ingiy  into  his  face;  to  search  the  bright,  steady  eyes,  without 
finding  in  them  any  hint  of  softening  or  relenting. 

"  Will  you  not  take  it,  please?  "  I  asked  in  a  quivering  voice 
and  with  trembling  lips. 

"Impossible,  mtin  Frdulein/'  with  the  same  chilly  little 
bow  as  before. 

Struggling  to  repress  my  tears,  J  said  no  more,  but 
passed  out,  cut  to  the  heart.  The  door  was  closed  gently 
behind  me.  I  felt  as  if  it  had  closed  upon  a  bright  belief  of 
my  youth.  I  leaned  for  a  moment  against  the  passage  wall 
md  pressed  my  hand  against  my  eyes.  From  within  came 
the  sound  of  a  child's  voice,  "  Mein  Vater"  and  the  soft,  deep 
murmur  of  Eugen's  answer;  then  I  went  downstairs  and  into 
the  open  street. 

That  hateful,  hateful  three  thalers  ten  groschen  was  still 
clasped  in  my  hand.  What  was  I  to  do  with  it?  Throw  it 
into  tiie  Ehine,  and  wash  it  away  forever?  Give  it  to  some- 
one in  need?  Fling  it  into  the  gutter?  Send  it  to  him  by 
post?  I  dismissed  that  idea  for  what  it  was  worth.  No;  I 
would  obey  his  prohibition.  I  would  keep  it — those  very 
coins — and  when  I  felt  inclined,  to  be  proud  and  conceited 
about  anything  on  my  own  account,  or  disposed  to  put  down 
superhuman  charms  to  the  account  of  others,  I  would  go 
and  look  at  them,  and  they  would  preach  me  eloquent 
sermons. 

As  I  went  into  the  house,  up  the  stairs  to  my  room,  the 
front  door  opened  again,  and  Anna  Sartorius  overtook  me. 

"  I  thought  you  had  left  the  probe?  "  said  I,  staring  at  her. 

"So  I  hsid,, HerzcJmi,"  said  she  with  her  usual  ambiguous, 
mocking  laugh;  "but  I  was  not  compelled  to  come  home, 
like  a  good  httle  girl,  the  moment  I  came  out  of  the  Tonhalle. 
I  have  been  visiting  a  friend.  But  where  have  you  been, 
for  the  probe  must  have  been  over  for  some  time?  We  heard 
the  people  go  past;  indeed,  some  of  them  were  staying  in 
the  house  where  I  was.  Did  you  take  a  walk  in  the  moon- 
iight?" 


THE  FIRST  YIOLm.  89 

^  Good-night,"  said  I,  too  weary  and  too  indifferent  even 
to  answer  her. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  tiring  walk;  you  seem  weary,  quite 
ermiidet,"  said  she  mockingly,  and  I  made  no  answer. 

"  A  haupt-probe  is  a  dismal  thing,  after  all,"  she  called  out 
to  me  from  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

From  my  innermost  heart  I  agreed  with  her. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

KAFFEEKLATSCH. 

**PhilU9.    I  want  none  o'  thy  friendship ! 
Leabia.    Then  take  my  enmity  I  " 

*'  When  a  number  of  ladies  meet  together  to  discuss  mat> 
ters  of  importance,  we  call  it  '  Kaffeeklatsch,' "  Courvoisier 
had  said  to  me  on  that  never-forgotten  afternoon  of  my  ad- 
venture at  Koln. 

It  was  my  first  kaffeeklatsch  which,  in  a  measure,  decided 
my  destiny.  Hitherto,  that  is  up  to  the  end  of  June,  I  had 
not  been  to  any  entertainments  of  this  kind.  At  last  there 
came  an  invitation  to  Frau  Steinmann  and  to  Anna  Sar- 
torius,  to  assist  at  a  "  coffee "  of  unusual  magnitude,  and 
Frau  Steinmann  suggested  that  I  should  go  with  them  and 
see  what  it  was  like.     Nothing  loath,  I  consented. 

"  Bring  some  work,"  said  Anna  Sartorius  to  me,  "  or  you 
will  find  it  langivcilig — slow,  I  mean." 

"  Shall  we  not  have  some  music?  " 

"  Music,  yes,  the  sweetest  of  all — that  of  our  own  tongues. 
You  shall  hear  every'one's  candid  opinion  of  ever}'One  else — 
present  company  always  excepted;  and  you  will  see  what  the 
state  of  Elberthal  society  really  is — present  company  still 
excepted.  By  a  very  strange  chance  the  ladies  who  meet  at 
a  klatsch  are  always  good,  pious,  virtuous,  and,  above  all, 
charitable.  It  is  wonderful  how  well  we  manage  to  keep  the 
black  sheep  out,  and  have  nothing  but  lambs  immaculate." 

"  Oh,  don't! " 

"  Oh,  bah!  I  know  the  Elberthal  Elatscherei.  It  has 
picked  me  to  pieces  many  a  time.  After  you  have  partaken 
to-day  of  iis  coffee  and  its  cakes,  it  will  pick  you  to  pieces." 

"  But/'  said  I,  arranging  the  ruffles  of  my  very  best  frock. 


90  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

which  I  had  been  told  it  was  de  rigueur  to  wear,  "  I  thought 
women  never  gossiped  so  much  among  men." 

Fraulein  Sartorius  laughed  loud  and  long. 

"The  men!  Du  meine  Giite!  Men  at  a  kaffeeklatsch! 
Show  me  the  one  that  a  man  dare  even  look  into,  and  I'll 
crown  you — and  him,  too — with  laurel,  and  bay,  and  the  wild 
parsley.    A  man  at  a  kaffee — mag  Gott  es  hewahren!" 

"Oh!"  said  I,  half  disappointed,  and  with  a  very  poor,  mean 
sense  of  dissatisfaction  at  having  put  on  my  pretty  new  dress 
for  the  first  time  only  for  the  edification  of  a  number  of 
virulent  gossips. 

"  Men! "  she  reiterated  with  a  harsh  laugh  as  we  walked 
toward  the  Goldsternstrasse,  our  destination.  "  Men — ^no. 
We  despise  their  company,  you  see.  We  only  talk  about 
them,  directly  or  indirectly,  from  the  moment  of  meeting  to 
that  of  parting." 

"  I  am  sorry  there  are  no  gentlemen,"  said  I,  and  I  was. 
I  felt  I  looked  well. 

Arrived  at  the  scene  of  the  laffee,  we  were  conducted  to  a 
bedroom,  where  we  laid  aside  our  hats  and  mantles.  I  was 
standing  before  the  glass,  drawing  a  comb  through  my  up- 
turned hair,  and  contemplating,  vsdth  irrepressible  satisfac- 
tion, the  delicate  lavender  hue  of  my  dress,  when  I  suddenly 
saw  reflected  behind  me  the  dark,  harshly  cut  face  of  Anna 
Sartorius.  She  started  shghtly,  then  said  with  a  laugh, 
which  had  in  it  something  a  little  forced: 

"We  are  a.  contrast,  aren't  we?  Beauty  and  the  Beast^ 
one  might  almost  say.    Na!  's  scliadH  nix." 

I  turned  away  in  a  little  offended  pride.  Her  familiarity 
annoyed  me.  What  if  she  were  a  thousand  times  cleverer, 
wittier,  better  read  than  I?  I  did  not  like  her.  A  shade 
crossed  her  face. 

"Is  it  that  you  are  thoroughly  unamiable? "  said  she  in  a 
voice  which  had  reproach  in  it,  "  or  are  all  English  girls  so 
touchy  that  they  receive  a  compliment  upon  their  good  looks 
as  if  it  were  an  offense?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of  my  '  good  looks '  as  if  I  were 
a  dog  or  a  horse! "  said  I  angrily.  "  I  hate  to  be  flattered. 
I  am  no  beauty,  and  do  not  wish  to  be  treated  as  if  I  were." 

"Do  you  always  hate  it?"  said  she  from  the  window, 
whither  she  had  turned.  '' Acli!  there  goes  Herr  Cour- 
Voisier! " 

The  name  startled  me  like  a  sudden  report.    I  made  aa 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  91 

eager  step  forward  before  I  had  time  to  recollect  myself— 
then  stopped, 

"  He  is  not  out  of  sight  yet,"  said  she  with  a  curious  look, 
"  if  you  wish  to  see  him." 

I  sat  down  and  made  no  answer.  What  prompted  her  to 
talk  in  such  a  manner?    Was  it  a  mere  coincidence?" 

"He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  nicM  voalxrV^  she  said,  still 
watching  me,  while  I  thouglit  Frau  Steinmann  never  would 
manage  to  arrange  her  cap  in  the  style  that  pleased  her. 
"  But  a  TaugenicUs,  all  the  same,"  pursued  Anna  as  1  did 
not  speak.     "  Don't  you  tliink  so?  "  she  added. 

"  A  TaugenicUs — I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"  What  you  call  a  good-for-notliing." 

"Oh!" 
■    "  Nicht  wahr?  "  she  persisted. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  do.     I  will  tell  you  all  about  him  some  time." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about  him." 

"  So!  "  said  she,  with  a  laugh. 

Without  further  word  or  look  I  followed  Frau  Steinmann 
downstairs. 

The  lady  of  the  house  was  seated  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
concourse  of  old  and  young  ladies,  holding  her  own  with  a 
well-seasoned  hardihood  in  the  midst  of  the  awful  Babel  of 
tongues.  What  a  noise!  It  smote  upon  and  stunned  my 
confounded  ear.  Our  hostess  advanced  and  led  me,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand,  into  the  center  of  the  room,  when  she 
introduced  me  to  about  a  dozen  ladies;  and  everyone  in 
the  room  stopped  talking  and  working,  and  stared  at  me 
intently  and  unwinkingly  until  my  name  had  been  pro- 
nounced, after  wliich  some  continued  still  to  stare  at  me, 
and  commenting  openly  upon  it.  Meanwhile  I  was  con- 
ducted to  a  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  requested,  in  a 
set  phrase,  "  Bitte,  Frdulein,  nehmen  Sie  platz  auf  dem  Sofa,'* 
with  which  long  custom  has  since  made  me  familiar,  to  take 
my  seat  upon  it.  I  humbly  tried  to  dechne  the  honor,  but 
Anna  Sartorius,  beliind  me,  whispered: 

"  Sit  down  directly,  unless  you  want  to  be  thought  an 
utter  barbarian.     The  place  has  been  kept  for  you." 

Deeply  impressed,  and  very  uncomfortable,  I  sat  down. 
First  one  and  then  another  came  and  spoke  and  talked  to 
me.     Their  questions  and  remarks  were  much  in  this  style: 

"Do  jrou  like  Elberthal?    What  is  your  Christian  nameZ 


93  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

How  old  are  you?  Have  yon  been  or  are  you  engaged  to  1)6 
married?  They  break  off  engagements  in  England  for  a 
mere  trifle,  don't  they?  Schrecklich!  Did  you  get  your 
dress  in  Elberthal?  What  did  it  cost  the  elle?  Young  Eng- 
lish ladies  wear  silk  much  more  than  young  German  ladies. 
You  never  go  to  the  theater  on  Sunday  in  England — you  are 
all  pietistich.  How  beautifully  you  speak  our  language! 
Eeally  no  foreign  accent! "  (This  repeatedly  and  unblush- 
ingly,  in  spite  of  my  most  flagrant  mistakes,  and  in  the  face 
of  my  most  feeble,  halting,  and  stammering  efforts  to  make 
myself  understood.)  "  Do  you  learn  music?  singing?  From 
whom?  Herr  von  Francius?  AcJi,  so!"  (Pause,  while  they 
all  look  impressively  at  me.  The  very  name  of  Von  Francius 
calls  up  emotions  of  no  common  order.)  "  I  believe  I  have 
seen  you  at  the  proben  to  the  '  Paradise  Lost.'  Perha^ps  you 
are  the  lady  who  is  to  take  the  solos?  Yes!  Du  lieher  Him- 
mel!  What  do  you  think  of  Herr  von  Francius?  Is  he  not 
nice?"  {Nett,  though,  signifies  something  feminine  and 
finikin.)  "  No?  How  odd!  There  is  no  accounting  for  the 
tastes  of  Englishwomen,  Do  you  know  many  people  in 
Elberthal?  No?  Scliade!  No  officers?  Not  Hauptmann 
Sachse?  "  (with  voice  growing  gradually  shriller),  "  nor  Lieu- 
tenant Pieper?  Not  know  Lieutenant  Pieper!  Um  Gottes- 
willen!  What  do  you  mean?  He  so  handsome!  such  eyes! 
such  a  mustache!  Herrgott!  And  you  do  not  know  Mm? 
I  will  tell  you  something.  When  he  went  off  to  the  autumn 
maneuvers  at  Frankfort  (I  have  it  on  good  authority),  twenty 
young  ladies  went  to  see  him  off." 

"  Disgusting! "  I  exclaimed,  unable  to  control  my  feelings 
any  longer.  I  saw  Anna  Sartorius  malignantly  smiling,  aa 
she  rocked  herself  in  an  American  rocking  chair. 

"How,  disgusting?  You  axe  joking.  He  had  dozens  of 
bouquets.  All  the  girls  are  in  love  with  him.  They  com- 
pelled the  photographer  to  sell  them  his  photograph,  and 
they  all  believe  he  is  in  love  with  them.  I  believe  Luise 
Breidenstein  will  die  if  he  doesn't  propose  to  her." 

"  They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves." 

*'  But  he  is  so  handsome,  so  delightful.  He  dances 
divinely,  and  knows  such  good  riddles,  and  acts — ach,  Tiimm- 
liscli ! " 

"  But  how  absurd  to  make  such  a  fuss  for  him! "  I  cried, 
hot  and  indignant.     "  The  idea  of  going  on  so  about  a  manl " 

A  chorus,  a  shriek,  a  Babel  of  expostulations. 


THE  FIRST  VlOim.  93 

"Listen,  Thekla!  Fraulein  Wedderburn  does  not  know 
Lieutenant  Pieper,  and  does  not  think  it  right  to  scliwdrm  for 
him." 

"  The  darling!  No  one  can  help  it  who  knows  him!  "  said 
another. 

"  Let  her  wait  till  she  does  know  him/'  said  Thekla,  a  senti- 
mental young  woman,  pretty  in  a  certain  sentimental  way, 
and  graceful,  too — also  sentimentally — with  the  sentiment 
that  Hngers  about  young  ladies'  albums  with  leaves  of  smooth, 
various-hued  note  paper,  and  about  the  sonnets  which  nestle 
within  the  same.     There  was  a  sudden  shriek: 

"  There  li  3  goes!  There  is  the  Herr  Lieutenant  riding  by. 
Just  come  here,  mein  Fraulein!  See  him!  Judge  for 
yourself!  " 

A  strong  hand  dragged  me,  whether  I  would  or  not,  to  the 
window,  and  pointed  out  to  me  the  Herr  Lieutenant  riding 
by.  An  adorable  creature  in  a  Hussar  uniform;  he  had  pink 
cheeks  and  a  straight  nose,  and  the  loveliest  little  model  of  a 
mustache  ever  seen;  tightly  curling  black  hair,  and  the  dear- 
est little  feet  and  hands  imaginable. 

"  Oh,  the  dear,  handsome,  delightful  fellow! "  cried  one 
enthusiastic  young  creature,  who  had  scrambled  upon  a 
chair  in  the  background  and  was  gazing  after  him  while 
another,  behind  me,  murmured  in  tones  of  emotion: 

"  Look  how  he  salutes — divine,  isn't  it?  " 

I  turned  away,  smiling  an  irrepressible  smile.  My  musi- 
cian, with  his  ample  traits  and  clear,  bold  eyes,  would  have 
looked  a  wild,  rough,  untamable  creature  by  the  side  of  that 
wax-doll  beauty — that  pretty  thing  who  had  just  ridden  by. 
I  thought  I  saw  them  side  by  side — Herr  Lieutenant  Pieper 
and  Eugen  Courvoisier.  The  latter  would  have  been  as  much 
more  imposing  than  the  former  as  an  oak  is  more  imposing 
than  a  spruce  fir — as  Gluck  than  Lortzing.  And  could  these 
enthusiastic  young  ladies  have  viewed  the  two  they  would 
have  been  true  to  their  lieutenant;  so  much  was  certain. 
They  would  have  said  that  the  other  man  was  a  wild  man, 
who  did  not  cut  his  hair  often  enough,  who  had  large  hands, 
whose  collar  was  perhaps  chosen  more  with  a  view  to  ease  and 
the  free  movement  of  the  throat  than  to  the  smallest  number 
of  inches  within  which  it  was  possible  to  confine  that  throat; 
who  did  not  wear  polished  kid  boots,  and  was  not  seen  off 
from  the  station  by  twenty  devoted  admirers  of  the  opposite 
sex,  was  not  deluged  with  bouquets.    With  a  feeling  aa  of 


94  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

Bomething  singing  at  my  heart  I  went  back  to  my  place,  smil- 
ing still. 

"  See!  she  is  quite  charmed  with  the  Herr  Lieutenant!  Is 
henotdehcrhtful?" 

"  Oh,  very;  so  is  a  Dresden  china  shepherd;  but  if  you  let 
him  fall  he  breaks/* 

"  Wie  horaisch!  how  odd!  "  was  the  universal  comment  upon 
my  eccentricity.  The  conversation  had  wandered  off  to  other 
military  stars,  all  of  whom  were  reizend,  hiibsch,  or  nett.  So 
it  went  on  until  I  got  heartily  tired  of  it,  and  then  the  ladies 
discussed  their  female  neighbors,  but  I  leave  that  branch  of 
the  subject  to  the  intelhgent  reader.  It  was  the  old  tune 
with  the  old  variations,  which  were  rattled  over  in  the  accus- 
tomed manner.  I  listened,  half  curious,  half  appalled,  and 
thought  of  various  speeches  made  by  Anna  Sartorius. 
Whether  she  was  amiable  or  not,  she  had  certainly  a  keen 
insight  into  the  hearts  and  motives  of  her  fellow-creature3. 
Perhaps  the  gift  had  soured  her. 

Anna  and  I  walked  home  alone.  Frau  Steinmann  was, 
with  other  elderly  ladies  of  the  company,  to  spend  the  even- 
ing there.  As  we  walked  down  the  Konigsallee — ^how  well 
to  this  day  do  I  remember  it!  The  chestnuts  were  beginning 
to  fade,  the  road  was  dusty,  the  sun  setting  gloriously,  the 
people  thronging  in  crowds — she  said  suddenly,  quietly,  and 
in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  composure: 

"So  you  don't  admire  Lieutenant  Pieper  so  much  as  Herr 
Courvoisier?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried,  astonished,  alarmed,  and 
wondering  what  unlucky  chance  led  her  to  talk  to  me  of 
Eugen. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say;  and  for  my  part  I  agree  with  you — 
partly.  Courvoisier,  bad  though  he  may  be,  is  a  man;  the 
other  a  mixture  of  doll  and  puppy." 

She  spoke  in  a  friendly  tone;  discursive,  as  if  inviting  con- 
fidence and  comment  on  my  part.  I  was  not  inclined  to  give 
either.  I  shrunk  with  morbid  nervousness  from  owning  to 
any  knowledge  of  Eugen.  My  pride,  nay,  my  very  self- 
esteem,  bled  whenever  I  thought  of  him  or  heard  him  men- 
tioned. Above  all,  I  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  discussing  him, 
or  anything  pertaining  to  him,  with  Anna  Sartorius. 

"  It  will  be  time  for  you  to  agree  with  me  when  I  give  you 
an3rthing  to  agree  about,"  said  I  coldly.  "I  know  nothing 
of  either  of  the  gentlemen,  and  wish  to  know  nothing.*' 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  05 

There  was  a  pause.  Looking  up,  I  found  Anna's  eyes  fixed 
upon  my  face,  amazed,  reproachful.  I  felt  myself  blushing 
fierily.  My  tongue  had  led  me  astray;  I  had  lied  to  her;  I 
knew  it. 

"  Do  not  say  you  know  nothing  of  either  of  the  gentlemen, 
Herr  Courvoisier  was  your  first  acquaintance  in  Elberthal." 

"  What?  "  I  cried  with  a  great  leap  of  the  heart,  for  I  felt 
as  if  a  veil  had  suddenly  been  rent  away  from  before  my  eyes 
and  I  shown  a  precipice. 

"I  saw  you  arrive  with  Herr  Courvoisier,'*  said  Anna 
calmly;  "  at  least,  I  saw  you  come  from  the  platform  with 
him,  and  he  put  you  into  a  drosky.  And  I  saw  you  cut  him 
at  the  opera;  and  I  saw  you  go  into  his  house  after  the  general 
probe.  Will  you  tell  me  again  that  you  know  nothing  of 
him?    I  should  have  thought  you  too  proud  to  tell  lies." 

"  I  wish  you  would  mind  your  own  business,"  said  1, 
heartily  wishing  that  Anna  Sartorius  were  at  the  antipodes. 

"  Listen!  "  said  she  very  earnestly,  and,  I  remember  it  now, 
though  I  did  not  heed  it  then,  with  wistful  kindness.  "  I  do 
not  bear  malice — you  are  so  young  and  inexperienced.  I  wish 
you  were  more  friendly,  but  I  care  for  you  too  much  to  be 
rebuffed  by  a  trifle.     I  will  tell  you  about  Courvoisier." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I  hastily.  *'  I  beg  you  will  do  no  such 
thing." 

"  I  know  his  story.     I  can  tell  you  the  truth  about  him." 

"I  decline  to  discuss  the  subject,"  said  I,  tliinking  of 
Eugen,  and  passionately  refusing  the  idea  of  discussing  him, 
gossiping  about  him,  with  anyone. 

Anna  looked  surprised;  then  a  look  of  anger  crossed  her 
face. 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest,"  said  she. 

"  I  assure  you  I  am.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me  along,'* 
I  said,  exasperated  beyond  endurance. 

"You  don't  wish  to  know  what  I  can  tell  you  about 
him?" 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  is  more,  if  you  begin  talking  to  me 
about  him,  I  will  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears  and  leave 
you." 

"  Then  you  may  learn  it  for  yourself,"  said  she  suddenly, 
in  a  voice  little  more  than  a  whisper.  "  You  shall  rue  your 
treatment  of  me.  And  when  you  know  the  lesson  by  heart, 
then  you  mil  be  sorry." 

"  You  are  ofiicious  and  impertinent,"  said  I,  white  with  iie. 


S6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  I  don't  wish  for  your  society,  and  I  will  say  good-evening  to 
you.'* 

With  that  I  turned  down  a  side  street  leading  into  the 
Alleestrasse,  and  left  her. 

CHAPTER   IX. 

"So! 
Another  chapter  read;  with  doubtful  hand 
1  turn  the  page;  "with  doubtful  eyes  I  scan 
The  heading  of  the  next." 

From  that  evening  Anna  let  me  alone,  as  I  thought,  anci  T 
was  glad  of  it,  nor  did  I  attempt  any  conciliation,  fo! 
the  very  good  reason  that  I  wished  for  none. 

Soon  after  our  dispute  I  found  upon  my  plate  at  breakfast, 
one  morning,  a  letter  directed  in  a  bold  though  unformed 
hand,  which  I  recognized  as  Stella's: 

"  Dear  May:  I  dare  say  Adelaide  will  be  writing  to  you. 
But  I  will  take  time  by  the  forelock,  so  to  speak,  and  give 
you  my  views  on  the  subject  first. 

"  There  is  news;  strange  to  say  that  there  is  some  news  to 
tell  you.  I  shall  give  it  without  making  any  remarks.  I 
shall  not  say  whether  I  think  it  good,  bad,  or  indifEerent. 
Adelaide  is  engaged  to  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant.  It  was  only 
made  known  two  days  ago.  Adelaide  thinks  he  is  in  love 
with  her.  What  a  strange  mistake  for  her  to  malce!  She 
thinks  she  can  do  anytliing  with  him.  Also  a  monstrous 
misapprehension  on  her  part.  Seriously,  May,  I  am  rather 
uncomfortable  about  it,  or  should  be,  if  it  were  anyone  else 
but  Adelaide.  But  she  knows  so  remarkably  well  what  she 
is  about,  that  perhaps,  after  all,  my  fears  are  needless.  And 
yet — but  there  is  no  use  speculating  about  it — I  said  I 
wouldn't. 

"  She  is  a  queer  girl.  I  don't  know  how  she  can  marry 
Sir  Peter,  I  must  say.  I  suppose  he  is  awfully  rich,  and 
Adelaide  has  always  said  that  poverty  was  the  most  horrible 
thing  in  the  world.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  should  be 
inclined  to  say  that  Sir  Peter  was  the  most  horrible  thing  in 
the  world.  Write  soon,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  about  it. 
".Thine,  speculatively, 

"  Stella  Wedderbuen."    . 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  97 

I  did  not  feel  surprise  at  this  letter.  Foreboding,  grief, 
ehame,  I  did  experience  at  finding  that  Adelaide  was  bent 
upon  her  own  misery.  But  then,  I  reflected,  she  cannot  be 
very  sensible  to  misery,  or  she  would  not  be  able  to  go  through 
with  such  a  purpose.  I  went  upstairs  to  communicate  this 
news  to  Miss  Hallam.  Soon  the  rapid  movements  of  events 
in  my  own  affairs  completely  drove  thoughts  of  Adelaide  for 
a  time,  at  least,  out  of  my  mind. 

Miss  Hallam  received  the  information  quietly  and  with  a 
certain  contemptuous  indifference.  I  knew  she  did  not  like 
Adelaide,  and  I  spoke  of  her  as  seldom  as  possible. 

I  took  up  some  work,  glancing  at  the  clock,  for  I  expected 
Von  Francius,  soon,  to  give  me  my  lesson,  and  Miss  Hallam 
sat  still.  I  had  offered  to  read  to  her,  and  she  had  declined. 
I  glanced  at  her  now  and  then.  I  had  grown  accustomed 
to  that  sarcastic,  wrinkled,  bitter  face,  and  did  not  dislike  it. 
Indeed,  Miss  Hallam  had  given  me  abundant  proofs  that, 
eccentric  though  she  might  be,  pessimist  in  theor>,  merciless 
upon  human  nature,  which  she  spoke  of  in  a  manner  which 
sometimes  absolutely  appalled  me,  yet  in  fact,  in  deed,  she 
was  a  warm-hearted,  generous  woman.  She  had  dealt  bounti- 
fully by  me,  and  I  knew  she  loved  me,  though  she  never 
said  so. 

"  May,"  she  presently  remarked,  "  yesterday,  when  you  were 
out,  I  saw  Dr.  Mittendorf." 

"  Did  you,  Miss  Hallam?  " 

"  Yes.  He  says  it  is  useless  my  remaining  here  any  longer. 
I  shall  never  see,  and  an  operation  might  cost  me  my  life." 

Half  stunned,  and  not  yet  quite  taking  in  the  whole  case, 
I  held  my  work  suspended,  and  looked  at  her.     She  went  on: 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so  when  I  came.  I  don't  intend  to 
try  any  more  experiments.     I  shall  go  home  next  week." 

Now  I  grasped  the  truth. 

"  Go  home.  Miss  Hallam!  "  I  repeated  faintly. 

*'  Yes,  of  course.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  stay, 
is  there  ?  " 

"  N-no,  I  suppose  not,"  I  admitted;  and  contrived  to 
stammer  out,  "  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  Dr.  Mittendorf 
thinks  you  will  not  be  better." 

Then  I  left  the  room  quickly — I  could  not  stay,  I  was  over- 
whelmed. It  was  scarcely  ten  minutes  since  I  had  come 
upstairs  to  her.     I  could  have  thought  it  was  a  week. 

Outside  the  room,  I  stood  on  the  landing  with  my  hand 


08  THE  FIRST  VIOLrHf, 

pressed  to  my  forehead,  for  I  felt  somewhat  bewildered. 
Stella's  letter  was  still  in  my  hand.  As  I  stood  there  Anna 
Sartorius  came  past. 

"  Guten  Tag,  Frdulein"  said  she  with  a  mocking  kind  of 
good-nature  when  she  had  observed  me  for  a  few  minutes. 
"What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?  Have  you  had  bad 
news?  " 

"  Good-morning,  Fraulein,"  I  answered  quietly  enough, 
dropping  my  hand  from  my  brow. 

I  went  to  my  room.  A  maid  was  there,  and  the  furniture 
might  have  stood  as  a  type  of  chaos,  I  turned  away,  and 
went  to  the  empty  room  in  which  my  piano  stood,  and  where 
I  had  my  music  lessons.  I  sat  down  upon  a  stool  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  folded  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  endeav- 
ored to  realize  what  had  happened — what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen. There  rang  in  my  head  nothing  but  the  words,  "  I  am 
going  home  next  week." 

Home  again!  what  a  blank  yawned  before  me  at  the  idea! 
Leave  Elberthal — ^leave  tliis  new  life  which  has  just  begun  to 
grow  real  to  me!  Leave  it — go  away;  be  whirled  rapidly 
away  back  to  Skemf ord — away  from  this  vivid  life,  away  from 
— Eugen.  I  drew  a  long  breath,  as  the  wretched,  ignominious 
idea  intruded  itself,  and  I  knew  now  what  it  was  that  gave 
terror  to  the  prospect  before  me.  My  heart  quailed  and 
fainted  at  the  bare  idea  of  such  a  thing.  Not  even  Hobson's 
choice  was  open  to  me.  There  was  no  alternative — I  must 
go.  I  sat  still,  and  felt  myself  growing  gradually  stiller  and 
graver  and  colder  as  I  looked  mentally  to  every  side 
of  my  horizon,  and  found  it  so  bounded — myself  shut  in  so 
fast. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return  home,  and  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  at  Skemford.  I  was  in  a  mood  in  which 
I  could  smile.  I  smiled  at  the  idea  of  myself  growing  older 
and  older,  and  this  six  weeks  that  I  had  spent  fading  back 
and  back  into  the  distance,  and  the  people  into  whose  lives 
I  had  had  a  cursory  glance  going  on  their  W9.y,  and  soon  for- 
getting my  existence.  Truly,  Anna!  if  you  were  anxious  for 
me  to  be  miserable,  tliis  moment,  could  you  know  it,  should 
be  sweet  to  you! 

My  hands  clasped  themselves  more  closely  upon  my  lap,  and 
I  sat  staring  at  nothing,  vaguely,  until  a  shadow  before  me 
caused  me  to  look  up.  Without  knowing  it.  Von  Francius 
had  come  in,,  and  was  standing  by,  looking  at  me. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIHr.  99 

;  "  Good-moming! "  said  I  with  a  vast  effort,  partially  col- 
lecting my  scattered  thoughts. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  your  lesson,  mcin  Frdulein?  " 

"  N-no.  I  think,  Herr  Direktor,  I  will  not  take  any  les- 
son to-day,  if  you  will  excuse  it." 

"But  why?    Are  you  ill?" 

"No,"  said  I.  "At  least — perhaps  I  want  to  accustom 
myself  to  do  without  music  lessons." 

"So!" 

"Yes,  and  without  many  other  pleasant  things,"  said  I 
dryly  and  decidedly. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  he,  putting  liis  hat  down  and 
leaning  one  elbow  upon  the  piano,  while  his  deep  eyes  fixed 
themselves  upon  my  face,  and,  as  usual,  began  to  compel  my 
secrets  from  me. 

"  I  am  going  home,"  said  I. 

A  quick  look  of  feeling — whether  astonishment,  regret,  or 
dismay,  I  should  not  like  to  have  said — flashed  across  his 
face. 

"  Have  you  had  bad  news?  " 

"  Yes,  very.     Miss  Hallam  returns  to  England  next  week." 

"But  why  do  you  go?     Why  not  remain  here?" 

"Gladly,  if  I  had  any  money,"  I  said  with  a  dry  smile. 
"But  I  have  none,  and  cannot  get  any." 

"You  will  return  to  England  now?  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  giving  up  ?  " 

"  Obligation  has  no  choice,"  said  I  gracefully.  "  I  would 
give  anything  if  I  could  stay  here,  and  not  go  home  again." 
And  with  that  I  burst  into  tears.  I  covered  my  face  with 
my  hands,  and  all  the  pent-up  grief  and  pain  of  the  coming 
parting  streamed  from  my  eyes.     I  wept  uncontrollably. 

He  did  not  interrupt  my  tears  for  some  time.  When  he 
did  speak,  it  was  in  a  very  gentle  voice. 

"  Miss  Wedderburn,  will  you  try  to  compose  yourself,  and 
listen  to  something  I  have  to  say?  " 

I  looked  up.  I  saw  his  eyes  fixed  seriously  and  kindly 
upon  me,  with  an  expression  quite  apart  from  their  usual 
indifferent  coolness — with  the  look  of  one  friend  to  another 
— with  such  a  look  as  I  had  seen  and  have  since  seen  ex- 
changed between  Courvoisier  and  his  friend  Helfen. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  Fraulein  May. 
Why  should  I  hesitate  to  say  so?  You  are  young — you  do 
not  know  the  extent  of  your  own  strength,  or  of  your  own 


108  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

weakness.  I  do.  I  will  not  flatter — it  is  not  my  way — as  I 
think  you  know." 

I  smiled.  I  remembered  the  plentiful  blame  and  the  scant 
praise  wliich  it  had  often  fallen  to  my  lot  to  receive  from  him. 

"  I  am  a  strict,  sarcastic,  disagreeable  old  pedagogue,  as 
you  and  so  many  of  my  other  fair  pupils  consider,"  he  went 
on,  and  I  looked  up  in  amaze.  I  knew  that  so  many  of  his 
"  fair  pupils  "  considered  him  exactly  the  reverse. 

"  It  is  my  business  to  know  whether  a  voice  is  good  for 
anything  or  not.  Now  yours,  with  training,  will  be  good  for 
a  great  deal.  Have  you  the  means,  or  the  chance,  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  getting  that  training  in  England?" 

"  No." 

"  I  should  like  to  help  you;  partly  from  the  regard  I  have 
for  you,  partly  for  my  own  sake,  because  I  think  you  would 
do  me  credit." 

He  paused.  I  was  looking  at  him  with  all  my  senses  con- 
centrated upon  what  he  had  said.  He  had  been  talking 
round  the  subject  until  he  saw  that  he  had  fairly  fixed  my 
attention;  then  he  said  sharply  and  rapidly: 

"  Fraulein,  it  lies  with  you  to  choose.  Will  you  go  home 
and  stagnate  there,  or  will  you  remain  here,  fight  down  your 
difficulties,  and  become  a  worthy  artist?" 

"  Can  there  be  any  question  as  to  wliich  I  should  like  to 
•do?"  said  I,  distracted  at  the  idea  of  having  to  give  up  the 
prospect  he  held  out.  "  But  it  is  impossible.  Miss  Hallam 
alone  can  decide." 

"But  if  Miss  Hallam  consented,  you  would  remain?" 

"  Oh,  Herr  von  Francius!  You  should  soon  see  whether 
I  would  remain! " 

"  Also!  Miss  Hallam  shall  consent.    Now  to  our  singing!  " 

I  stood  up.  A  singular  apathy  had  come  over  me;  I  felt 
no  longer  my  old  self.     I  had  a  kind  of  confidence  in  Von 

Francius,  and  yet Despite  my  recent  trouble,  I  felt 

now  a  lightness  and  freedom,  and  a  perfect  ability  to  cast 
aside  all  anxieties,  and  turn  to  the  business  of  the  moment 
— my  singing.  I  had  never  sung  better.  Von  Francius  con- 
descended to  say  that  I  had  done  well.     Then  he  rose. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  have  a  private  interview  with  Miss 
Hallam,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  I  am  always  having  private 
interviews  with  her,  nicht  wahr?  Nay,  Fraulein  May,  do  not 
let  your  eyes  fill  with  tears.  Have  confidence  in  yourself 
and  your  destiny,  as  I  have." 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  101^ 

^  With  that  he  was  gone,  leaving  me  to  practice.  How  very. 
kind  Von  Francius  was  to  me!  I  thought — not  in  the  least 
the  kind  of  man  people  called  him.  I  had  great  confidence 
in  him — in  his  will.  I  almost  believed  that  he  would  know 
the  right  thing  to  say  to  Miss  Hallam  to  get  her  to  let  me 
stay;  but  then,  suppose  she  were  willing,  I  had  no  possible 
means  of  support.  Tired  of  conjecturing  upon  a  subject 
upon  which  I  was  so  utterly  in  the  dark,  I  soon  ceased  tha1» 
foolish  pursuit.  An  hour  had  passed,  when  I  heard  Von 
Francius'  step,  which  I  knew  quite  well,  come  down  the  stairs. 
My  heart  beat,  but  I  could  not  move. 

Would  he  pass,  or  would  he  come  and  speak  to  me?  He 
paused.  His  hand  was  on  the  lock.  That  was  he  standing 
before  tne,  with  a  slight  smile.  He  did  not  look  like  a  man 
defeated — but  then,  could  he  look  Hke  a  man  defeated?  My 
idea  of  him  was  that  he  held  his  own  way  calmly,  and  that 
circumstances  respectfully  bowed  to  him. 

"  The  day  is  gained,"  said  he,  and  paused;  but  before  I 
could  speak  he  went  on:  "  Go  to  Miss  Hallam;  be  kind  to 
her.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  part  from  you,  and  she  has  be- 
haved like  a  Spartan.  I  felt  quite  sorry  to  have  to  give  her 
so  much  pain." 

Much  wondering  what  could  have  passed  between  them, 
I  left  Von  Francius  silently  and  sought  Miss  Hallam. 

"  Are  you  there,  IMay?  "  said  she.  "  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  morning?  " 

"  Practicing — and  having  my  lesson." 

"  Practicing — and  having  your  lesson — exactly  what  I  have 
been  doing.  Practicing  giving  up  my  own  wishes,  and  tak- 
ing a  lesson  in  the  art  of  persuasion,  by  being  myself  per- 
suaded. Your  singing-master  is  a  wonderful  man.  He  haa 
made  me  act  against  my  principles." 

"  Miss  Hallam " 

**  You  were  in  great  trouble  this  morning  when  you  heard 
you  were  to  leave  Elberthal.  I  knew  it  instantly.  How- 
ever, you  shall  not  go  unless  you  choose.    You  shall  stay." 

Wondering,  I  held  my  tongue. 

"Herr  von  Francius  has  showed  me  my  duty." 

"  Miss  Hallam,"  said  I  suddenly,  "  I  will  do  whatever  you 
wish.  After  your  kindness  to  me,  you  have  the  right  to  dis- 
pose of  my  doings.     I  shall  be  glad  to  do  as  you  wish." 

"  Well,"  said  she  composedly,  *'  I  wish  you  to  write  a  let- 
ter to  your  parents,  which  I  will  dictate;  of  course  they 


10&  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

must  be  consulted.  Then,  if  they  consent,  I  intend  to  pro* 
vide  you  with  the  means  of  carrying  on  your  studies  in 
Elberthal  under  Herr  von  Francius." 

I  almost  gasped.  Miss  Hallam,  who  had  been  a  by-word 
in  Skernford,  and  in  our  own  family,  for  eccentricity  and 
stinginess,  was  indeed  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  my  head. 
I  tried,  weakly  and  ineffectually,  to  express  my  gratitude  to 
her,  and  at  last  said: 

*^You  may  trust  me  never  to  abuse  your  kindness.  Miss 
Hallam." 

"  I  have  trusted  you  ever  since  you  refused  Sir  Peter  Le 
Marchant,  and  were  ready  to  leave  your  home  to  get  rid  of 
him,"  said  she  with  grim  humor. 

She  then  told  me  that  she  had  settled  everything  with 
Yon  Francius,  even  that  I  was  to  remove  to  different  lodgings, 
more  suited  for  a  solitary  student  than  Frau  Steinmann'a 
busy  house. 

"And,"  she  added,  ''I  shall  ask  Dr.  Mittendorf  to  have 
an  eye  to  you  now  and  then,  and  to  write  to  me  of  how  you 
go  on." 

I  could  not  find  many  words  in  which  to  thank  her.  The 
feeling  that  I  was  not  going,  did  not  need  to  leave  it  all,  filled 
my  heart  with  a  happiness  as  deep  as  it  was  unfounded  and 
unreasonable. 

At  my  next  lesson  Von  Francius  spoke  to  me  of  the  future. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  a  real  student — no  play  one,"  said  he, 
"  or  you  will  never  succeed.  And  for  that  reason  I  told  Miss 
Hallam  that  you  had  better  leave  this  house.  There  are  too 
many  distractions.  I  am  going  to  put  you  in  a  very  different 
place." 

"  Where?    In  which  part  of  the  town?  " 

"  Wehrhahn,  39,  is  the  address,"  said  he. 

I  was  not  quite  sure  where  that  was,  but  did  not  ask  fur- 
ther, for  I  was  occupied  in  helping  Miss  Hallam,  and  wished 
to  be  with  her  as  much  as  I  could  before  she  left. 

The  day  of  parting  came,  as  come  it  must.  Miss  Hallam 
was  gone,  I  had  cried,  and  she  had  maintained  the  grim 
silence  which  was  her  only  way  of  expressing  emotion. 

She  was  going  back  home  to  Skernford,  to  blindness,  now 
known  to  be  inevitable,  to  her  saddened,  joyless  life.  I  was 
going  to  remain  in  Elberthal — for  what?  When  I  look  back 
I  ask  myself — was  I  not  as  blind  as  she,  in  truth?  In  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  of  Miss  Hallam's  departure  I  left  Fran 


THE  FIEST  VIOZm  103 

feteinmann's  house,  Clara  promised  to  come  and  see  me  some- 
times. Frau  Steinmann  kissed  me,  and  called  me  liehes  Kind, 
I  got  into  the  cab,  and  directed  the  driver  to  go  to  Wehrhahn, 
39.  He  drove  me  along  one  or  two  streets  into  the  one  known 
as  the  Schadowstrasse,  a  long,  wide  street,  in  which  stood  the 
Tonhalle.  A  little  past  that  building,  round  the  comer,  and 
he  stopped  on  the  same  side  of  the  road. 

"Not  here! "  said  I,  putting  my  head  out  of  the  window, 
when  I  saw  the  window  of  the  curiosity  shop  exactly  oppo- 
site.   "  Not  here! " 

«  Wehrhahn,  39,  Friiulein?  " 

«  Yes." 
•     "This  is  it." 

I  stared  around.  Yes — on  the  wall  stood  in  plainly-to-be- 
read  white  letters,  "  Wehrhahn,"  and  on  the  door  of  the 
house,  39.  Yielding  to  a  conviction  that  it  was  to  be,  I  mur- 
mured "  Kismet,"  and  descended  from  my  chariot.  The 
woman  of  the  house  received  me  civilly.  "  The  young  lady  for 
whom  the  Herr  Direktor  had  taken  lodgings?  Schon !  Please 
to  come  this  way,  Fraulein.  The  room  was  on  the  tliird 
etagc."  I  followed  her  upstairs — steep,  dark,  narrow  stairs, 
like  those  of  the  opposite  house.  The  room  was  a  bare-look- 
ing, tolerably  large  one.  There  was  a  little  closet  of  a  bed- 
room opening  from  it,  a  scrap  of  carpet  upon  the  floor,  and 
open  windows  letting  in  the  air.  The  woman  chatted  good- 
naturedly  enough. 

"So!  I  hope  the  room  will  suit,  Fraulein.  It  is  truly  not 
to  be  called  richly  furnished,  but  one  doesn't  need  that  when 
one  is  a  Sing-student.  I  have  had  many  in  my  time — ladies, 
and  gentlemen,  too — pupils  of  Herr  von  Francius  often.  Na! 
What  if  they  did  make  a  great  noise?  I  have  no  children — 
thank  the  good  God!  and  one  gets  used  to  the  screaming  just 
as  one  gets  used  to  everything  else."  Here  she  called  me  to 
the  window. 

"  You  might  have  worse  prospects  than  this,  Fraulein,  and 
worse  neighbors  than  those  over  the  way.  See!  there  is  the 
old  furniture  shop,  where  so  many  of  the  Herren  Maler 
go;  and  then  there  is  Herr  Duntze,  the  landscape  painter; 
and  Herr  Knoop,  who  paints  Genrehilder,  and  does  not  make 
much  by  it — so  a  picture  of  a  child,  with  a  raveled  skein  of 
wool,  or  a  little  girl  making  earrings  for  herself  with  bunches 
of  cherries — for  my  part,  I  don't  see  much  in  them,  and  won- 
der that  there  are  people  who  will  lay  down  good,  hard  thalers 


104  THE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

for  them.  Then  there  is  Herr  Courvoisier,  the  musiker — ^but 
perhaps  you  know  who  he  is/* 

"  Yes/'  I  assented. 

"  And  his  Httle  son! "  Here  she  threw  up  her  hands. 
"  AchI  the  poor  man!  There  are  people  who  speak  against 
him,  and  everyone  knows  he  and  the  Herr  Direktor  are 
not  the  best  friends,  but  sehen  Sie  wohl,  Frdulein,  the  Herr 
Direktor  is  well  off,  settled,  provided  for;  Herr  Courvoisier 
has  his  way  to  make  yet,  and  the  world  before  him;  and  what 
sort  of  a  story  it  may  be  with  the  child  I  don't  know;  but 
this  I  will  say,  let  those  dare  to  doubt  it  or  question  it  who 
will,  he  is  a  good  father — I  know  it.  And  the  other  young 
man  with  Herr  Courvoisier — his  friend,  I  suppose — he  is  a 
musiker,  too.  I  hear  them  practicing  a  good  deal  sometimes 
— things  without  any  air  or  tune  to  them;  for  my  part,  I 
wonder  how  they  can  go  on  with  it.  Give  me  a  good  song, 
with  a  tune  to  it — '  Drunten  im  Unterland,'  or  '  In  Berlin, 
eagt  er,'  or  something  one  knows.  Na  1 1  suppose  the  fiddling 
all  lies  in  the  way  of  business,  and  perhaps  they  can  fall 
asleep  over  it  sometimes,  as  I  do,  now  and  then,  over  my  knit- 
ting, when  I'm  weary.  The  young  man,  Herr  Courvoisier's 
friend,  looked  ill  when  they  first  came;  even  now  he  is  not  to 
call  a  robust-looking  person — but  formerly  he  looked  as  if  he 
would  go  out  of  the  fugue  altogether.  Entschuldigeii,  Frau- 
lein,  if  I  use  a  few  professional  proverbs.  My  husband,  the 
sainted  man!  was  a  piano-tuner  by  calling,  and  I  have  picked 
up  some  of  liis  musical  expressions  and  use  them,  more  for 
his  sake  than  any  other  reason — for  I  have  heard  too  much 
music  to  believe  in  it  so  much  as  ignorant  people  do.  Nun! 
I  will  send  Friiulein  her  box  up,  and  then  I  hope  she  will  feel 
comfortable  and  at  home,  and  send  for  whatever  she  wants." 

In  a  few  moments  my  luggage  had  come  upstairs,  and  when 
they  who  had  brought  it  had  finally  disappeared,  I  wMit  to 
the  window  again  and  looked  out.  Opposite,  on  the  same 
etage,  were  two  windows,  corresponding  to  my  two,  wide  open, 
letting  me  see  into  an  empty  room,  in  which  there  seemed  to 
be  books  and  many  sheets  of  white  paper,  a  music  desk  and  a 
vase  of  flowers.  I  also  saw  a  piano  in  the  clare-obscure,  and 
another  door,  half  open,  leading  into  the  inner  room.  All 
the  inhabitants  of  the  rooms  were  out.  No  tone  came  across 
to  me — no  movement  of  life.  But  the  influence  of  the  absent 
ones  was  there.    Strange  concourse  of  circumstances  which 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLm.  105 

had  placed  me  as  the  opposite  neighbor,  in  the  same  profes- 
sion, too,  of  Eugen  Courvoisier!  Pure  chance  it  certainly 
was,  for  Von  Francius  had  certainly  had  no  motive  in  bring- 
ing me  hither. 

"  Kismet! "  I  murmured  once  again,  and  wondered  what 
the  future  would  bring. 


BOOK  in. 
TIUGEN  COURVOISIEB 


CHAPTER  I. 

•*  He  looks  his  angel  in  the  face 
Without  a  blush  :  nor  heeds  disgrace, 
Whom  naught  disgraceful  done 
Disgraces.     Who  knows  nothing  base 
Fears  nothing  known." 

It  was  noon.  The  probe  to  "  Tannhauser  "  was  over,  an3 
we,  the  members  of  the  kapelle,  had  turned  out,  and  stood  in 
a  knot  around  the  orchestra  entrance  to  the  Elberthal  Theater. 

It  was  a  raw  October' noontide.  The  last  traces  of  the  by- 
gone summer  were  being  swept  away  by  equinoctial  gales, 
which  whirled  the  remaining  yellowing  leaves  from  the  trees, 
and  strewed  with  them  the  walks  of  the  deserted  Hofgarten; 
a  stormy  gray  sky  promised  rain  at  the  earliest  opportunity; 
our  Rhine  went  gliding  by  like  a  stream  of  ruffled  lead. 

"  Proper  theater  weather,"  observed  one  of  my  fellow- 
musicians;  "  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  suit  you,  Friedhelm. 
"What  makes  you  look  so  down?'* 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  Existence  was  not  at  that  time 
very  pleasant  to  me;  my  life's  hues  were  somewhat  of  the 
color  of  the  autumn  sides  and  of  the  dull  river.  I  scarcely 
knew  why  I  stood  with  the  others  now;  it  was  more  a 
mechanical  pause  before  I  took  my  spiritless  way  home,  than 
because  I  felt  any  interest  in  what  was  going  on. 

"  I  should  say  he  will  be  younger  by  a  long  way  than  old 
Kohler,"  observed  Karl  Linders,  one  of  the  violoncellists,  a 
young  man  with  an  unfailing  flow  of  good  nature,  good  spirits, 
and  eagerness  to  enjoy  every  pleasure  which  came  in  his  way, 
wliich  qualities  were  the  objects  of  my  deep  wonder  and  mild 
envy.  "  And  they  say,"  he  continued,  "  that  he's  coming  to- 
night; so,  Friedhelm,  my  boy,  you  may  look  out.  Your 
master's  on  the  way." 

m 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  107 

"  So!  "  said  I,  lending  but  an  indifferent  attention;  "  what 

is  his  name  ?  " 

"  That's  his  way  of  gently  intimating  that  he  hasn't  got  a 
master,"  said  Karl  jocosely;  but  the  general  answer  to  my 
question  was,  "  I  don't  loiow." 

"  But  they  say,"  said  a  tall  man  who  wore  spectacles  and 
sat  behind  me  in  the  first  violins — "they  say  that  Von 
Francius  doesn't  like  the  appointment.  He  wanted  someone 
else,  but  Die  Direktion  managed  to  beat  liim.  He  dislikes 
the  new  fellow  beforehand,  whatever  he  may  be." 

"  So!  Then  he  will  have  a  roughish  time  of  it! "  agreed 
one  or  two  others. 

The  "  he  "  of  whom  they  spoke  was  the  coming  man  who 
should  take  the  place  of  the  leader  of  the  first  violins — it  fol- 
lowed that  he  would  be,  at  least,  an  excellent  performer— 
possibly  a  clever  man  in  many  other  ways,  for  the  post  was  in 
many  ways  a  good  one.  Our  Kapelle  was  no  mean  one — in 
our  own  estimation,  at  any  rate.  Our  late  first  violiaist,  who 
had  recently  died,  had  been  on  visiting  terms  with  persons 
of  the  highest  respectability,  had  given  lessons  to  the  very 
best  families,  and  might  have  been  seen  bowing  to  young 
ladies  and  important  dowagers  almost  any  day.  No  wonder 
his  successor  was  speculated  about  with  some  curiosity. 

"  AlU  Wetter! "  cried  Karl  Linders  impatiently — ^that 
young  man  was  much  given  to  impatience — "■  what  does  Yon 
Francius  want?  He  can't  have  everything.  I  suppose  this 
new  fellow  plays  a  little  too  well  for  his  taste.  He  will  have 
to  give  him  a  solo  now  and  then  instead  of  keeping  them  all 
for  himself." 

"  Weisz  's  nicM,"  said  another,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"I've  only  heard  that  Von  Francius  had  a  row  with  the 
Direction,  and  was  outvoted." 

"  What  a  sweet  temper  he  will  be  in  at  the  probe  to-mor- 
row!"  laughed  Karl.  "Won't  he  give  it  to  the  Mddchen 
right  and  left!  " 

"  What  time  is  he  coming?"  proceeded  one  of  the  oboists, 

"  Don't  know;  know  nothing  about  it;  perhaps  he'll  appeal 
in  '  Tannhauser '  to-night.     Look  out,  Friedhelm!  " 

"  Here  comes  little  Luischen,"  said  Karl  with  a  winning 
smile,  straightening  his  collar,  and  a  general  arming-for-con-. 
quest  expression,  as  some  of  the  "ladies  of  the  chorus  and 
ballet,"  appeared  from  the  side  door.  "Isn't  she  pretty?'* 
he  went  on,  in  an  audible  aside  to  me.     "  I've  a  crow  to  pluck 


108  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

with  her,  tt)o.  Tag,  Fraulein! "  he  added,  advancing  to  the 
young  lady  who  had  so  struck  him. 

He  was  "  struck/'  on  an  average,  once  a  week,  every  time 
with  the  most  beautiful  and  charming  of  her  sex.  The 
others,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  also  turned.  I  said  good- 
morning  to  Linders,  who  wished,  with  a  noble  generosity,  to 
make  me  a  partaker  in  his  cheerful  conversation  with  Frau- 
lein Luise  of  the  first  soprans,  slipped  from  his  grasp  and 
took  my  way  homeward.  Fraulein  Luischen  was  no  doubt 
very  pretty,  and  in  her  way  a  companionable  person.  Un- 
fortunately I  never  could  appreciate  that  way.  With  every 
wish  to  accommodate  myself  to  the  only  society  with  which 
fortune  supplied  me,  it  was  but  ill  that  I  succeeded. 

I,  Friedhelm  Helfen,  was  at  that  time  a  lonely,  soured  mis- 
anthrope of  two-and-twenty.  Let  the  announcement  sound 
as  absurd  as  it  may,  it  is  simply  and  absolutely  true.  I  was 
literally  alone  in  the  world.  My  last  relative  had  died  and 
left  me  entirely  without  anyone  who  could  have  even  a  theo- 
retical reason  for  taking  any  interest  in  me.  Gradually,  dur- 
ing the  last  few  months,  I  had  fallen  into  evil  places  of 
thought  and  imagination.  There  had  been  a  time  before,  as 
there  has  been  a  time  since^ — as  it  is  with  me  now — when  I 
worshiped  my  art  with  all  my  strength  as  the  most  beautiful 
thing  on  earth;  the  art  of  arts — the  most  beautiful  and  per- 
fect development  of  beauty  which  mankind  has  yet  succeeded 
in  attaining  to,  and  when  the  very  fact  of  its  being  so  and  of 
my  being  gifted  with  some  poor  power  of  expressing  and  inter- 
preting that  beauty  was  enough  for  me — gave  me  a  place  in 
the  world  with  which  I  was  satisfied,  and  made  life  under- 
standable to  me.  At  that  time  this  belief — ^my  natural  and 
normal  state — was  clouded  over;  between  me  and  the  goddess 
of  my  idolatry  had  fallen  a  veil;  I  wasted  my  brain  tissue  in 
trying  to  philosophize — cracked  my  head,  and  almost  my 
reason,  over  the  endless,  unanswerable  question  Cui  bono  ?  that 
question  which  may  so  easily  become  the  destruction  of  the 
fool  who  once  allows  himself  to  be  drawn  into  dallying  with 
it.  Cui  hono?  is  a  mental  Delilah  who  will  shear  the  locks 
of  the  most  arrogant  Samson.  And  into  the  arms  and  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  this  Delilah  I  had  given  myself.  I  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  being  lost  forever  in  her  snares,  which  she  sets  for 
the  feet  of  men.  To  what  use  all  this  toil?  To  what  use — 
music?  After,  by  dint  of  hard  twisting  my  thoughts  and 
coping  de^erately  with  problems  that  I  did  not  understand. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  109 

having  managed  to  extract  a  conviction  that  there  was  use 
in  music — a  use  to  beautify,  gladden,  and  elevate — I  be- 
gan to  ask  myself  further,  "  What  is  it  to  me  whether 
laankind  is  elevated  or  not?  made  better  or  worse?  higher 
or  lower? '' 

Only  one  who  has  asked  himself  that  question,  as  I  did,  in 
bitter  earnest,  and  fairly  faced  the  answer,  can  know  the  hor- 
ror, the  blackness,  the  emptiness  of  the  abyss  into  which  it 
gives  one  a  glimpse.  Blackness  of  darkness — no  standpoint, 
no  vantage-ground — it  is  a  horror  of  horrors;  it  haunted  me 
then  day  and  night,  and  constituted  itself  not  only  my  com- 
panion but  my  tyrant. 

I  was  in  bad  health,  too.  At  night,  when  the  joyless  day 
was  over,  the  work  done,  the  jjay  played  out,  the  smell  of  the 
footlights  and  gas  and  the  dust  of  the  stage  dispersed,  a  deadly 
weariness  used  to  overcome  me;  an  utter,  tired,  miserable 
apathy;  and  alone,  surrounded  by  loneliness,  I  le  my  morbid 
thoughts  carry  me  whither  they  would.  It  had  |one  so  far 
that  I  had  even  begun  to  say  to  myself  lately: 

"Friedhelm  Helfen,  you  are  not  wanted.  On  the  other 
side  this  life  is  a  nothingness  so  large  that  you  will  be  as  noth- 
ing in  it.  Launch  yourself  into  it.  The  story  that  suicide 
is  wrong  and  immoral  is,  like  other  things,  to  be  taken  with 
reservation.  There  is  no  absolute  right  and  wrong.  Suicide 
is  sometimes  the  highest  form  of  right  and  reason," 

This  mood  was  strong  upon  me  on  that  particular  day,  and 
as  I  paced  along  the  Schadowstrasse  toward  the  Wehrhahn, 
where  my  lodging  was,  the  very  stones  seemed  to  cry  out, 
**  The  world  is  weary,  and  you  are  not  wanted  in  it." 

A  heavy,  cold,  beating  rain  began  to  fall.  I  entered  the 
room  M^hich  served  me  as  living  and  sleeping  room.  From 
habit  I  eat  and  drank  at  the  same  restauration  as  that  fre- 
quented by  my  confreres  of  the  orchestra.  I  leaned  my  elbows 
upon  the  table,  and  listened  drearily  to  the  beat  of  the  rain 
upon  the  pane.  Scattered  sheets  of  music  containing,  some 
great,  others  little  thoughts,  lay  around  me.  Lately  it  seemed 
as  if  the  iiavor  was  gone  from  them.  The  other  night 
Beethoven  himself  had  failed  to  move  me,  and  I  accepted  it 
as  a  sign  that  all  was  over  with  me.  In  an  hour  it  would  be 
time  to  go  out  and  seek  dinner,  if  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have 
any  dinner.  Then  there  would  be  the  afternoon — the  dreary, 
wet  afternoon,  the  tramp  through  the  soaking  streets,  with 
the  lamplight  shining  into  the  pools  of  water,  to  the  theater^ 


no  THE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

the  lights,  the  people,  the  weary  round  of  painted  ballet-girls, 
and  accustomed  voices  and  faces  of  audience  and  performers. 
The  same  number  of  bars  to  play,  the  same  to  leave  unplayed; 
the  whole  dreary  story,  gone  through  so  often  before,  to  be 
gone  through  so  often  again. 

The  restauration  did  not  see  me  that  day;  I  remained  in 
the  house.  There  was  to  be  a  great  concert  in  the  course  of 
a  week  or  two;  the  "  Tower  of  Babel "  was  to  be  given  at  it. 
I  had  the  music.  I  practiced  my  part,  and  I  remember  being 
a  little  touched  with  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  one  of  the 
choruses,  that  sung  by  the  "  Children  of  Japhet "  as  they 
wander  sadly  away  with  their  punishment  upon  them  into  the 
Waldeinsamheit  (that  lovely  and  untranslatable  word)  one  of 
the  purest  and  most  pathetic  melodies  ever  composed. 

It  was  dark  that  afternoon.  I  had  not  stirred  from  my 
hole  since  coming  in  from  the  probe — had  neither  eaten  nor 
drank,  and  was  in  full  possession  of  the  uninterrupted  soli- 
tude coveted  by  busy  men.  Once  I  thought  that  it  would 
have  been  pleasant  if  someone  had  known  and  cared  for  me 
well  enough  to  run  upstairs,  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and 
talk  to  me  about  his  affairs. 

To  the  sound  of  gustily  blowing  wind  and  rain  beating  on 
the  pane,  the  afternoon  hours  dragged  slowly  by,  and  the 
world  went  on  outside  and  around  me  until  about  five  o'clock. 
Then  there  came  a  knock  at  my  door,  an  occurrence  so  un- 
precedented that  I  sat  and  stared  at  the  said  door  instead  of 
speaking,  as  if  Edgar  Poe's  raven  had  put  in  a  sudden  appear- 
ance and  begun  to  croak  its  "  Nevermore  "  at  me. 

The  door  was  opened.  A  dreadful,  dirty-looking  young 
woman,  a  servant  of  the  house,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  I  inquired. 

A  gentleman  wished  to  speak  to  me. 

"  Bring  him  in,  then,"  said  I,  somewhat  testily. 

She  turned  and  requested  someone  to  come  forward. 
There  entered  a  tall  and  stately  man,  with  one  of  those  rare 
faces,  beautiful  in  feature,  bright  in  expression,  which  one 
meets  sometimes,  and,  having  once  seen,  never  forgets.  He 
carried  what  I  took  at  first  for  a  bundle  done  up  in  dark-green 
plaid,  but  as  I  stood  up  and  looked  at  him  I  perceived  that 
the  plaid  was  wrapped  round  a  child.  Lost  in  astonishment, 
I  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 

"  I  beg  you  will  excuse  my  intruding  upon  you  thus,"  said 
he,  bowing,  and  I  involuntarily  returned  his  bow,  wondering 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  Ill 

more  and  more  what  he  could  be.  His  accent  was  none  of 
the  Elberthal  one;  it  was  fine,  refined,  pohshed. 

"How  can  I  serve  you?"  I  asked,  impressed  by  his  voice, 
manner,  and  appearance;  agreeably  impressed.  A  little 
masterful  he  looked — a  little  imperious,  but  not  unapproach- 
able, with  nothing  ungenial  in  his  pride. 

"  You  could  serve  me  very  much  by  giving  me  one  or  two 
pieces  of  information.  In  the  first  place  let  me  introduce 
myself;  you,  I  think,  are  Herr  Helfen?"  I  bowed.  "My 
name  is  Eugen  Courvoisier.  I  am  the  new  member  of  your 
stddisches  orchester" 

"  0,  was! "  said  I,  within  myself.  *'  That  is  our  new  first 
violin! " 

"  And  this  is  my  son,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  the  plaid 
bundle,  which  he  held  very  carefully  and  tenderly.  "  If  you 
will  tell  me  at  what  time  the  opera  begins,  what  it  is  to-night, 
and  finally,  if  there  is  a  room  to  be  had,  perhaps  in  this  house, 
even  for  one  night.  I  must  find  a  nest  for  this  Vogelein  as 
soon  as  I  possibly  can." 

"  I  beheve  the  opera  begins  at  seven,"  said  I,  still  gazing 
at  him  in  astonishment,  with  open  mouth  and  incredulous 
eyes.  Our  orchestra  contained,  among  its  sufficiently  varied 
specimens  of  nationality  and  appearance,  nothing  in  the  very 
least  Uke  this  man,  beside  whom  I  felt  myself  blundering, 
clumsy,  and  unpolished.  It  was  not  mere  natural  grace  of 
manner.  He  had  that,  but  it  had  been  cultivated  somewhere, 
and  cultivated  highly. 

"  Yes?  "  he  said. 

"  At  seven — yes.  It  is  *  Tannhauser  "  to-night.  And  the 
rooms — I  beheve  they  have  rooms  in  the  house." 

"Ah,  then  I  will  inquire  about  it,"  said  he,  with  an  ex- 
ceedingly open  and  delightful  smile.  "  I  thank  you  for  tell- 
ing me.     Adieu,  mein  Herr'' 

"Is  he  asleep?"  I  asked  abruptly,  and  pointing  to  the 
bundle. 

"  Yes;  armes  Kerlclien !  Just  now  he  is,"  said  the  young 
man. 

He  was  quite  young,  I  saw.  In  the  haK  light  I  supposed 
him  even  younger  than  he  really  was.  He  looked  down  at 
the  bundle  again  and  smiled. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  I,  politely  and  gracefully, 
seized  by  an  impulse  of  which  I  felt  ashamed,  but  which  I- 
yet  could  not  resist. 


112  TEE  FIRST  VlOim. 

With  that  I  stepped  forward  and  came  to  examine  the 
bundle.  He  moved  the  plaid  a  little  aside  and  showed  me  a 
child — a  very  young,  small,  helpless  child,  with  closed  eyes, 
immensely  long,  black,  curving  lashes,  and  fine,  delicate  black 
brows.  The  small  face  was  flushed,  but  even  in  sleep  this 
child  looked  melancholy.  Yet  he  was  a  lovely  child — ^most 
beautiful  and  most  pathetic  to  see. 

I  looked  at  the  small  face  in  silence,  and  a  great  desire 
came  upon  me  to  look  at  it  oftener — to  see  it  again;  then  up 
at  that  of  the  father.  How  unlike  the  two  faces!  Now  that 
I  fairly  looked  at  the  man,  I  found  that  he  was  different  from 
what  I  had  thought;  older,  sparer,  with  more  sharply  cut  fea- 
tures. I  could  not  tell  what  the  child's  eyes  might  be — those 
of  the  father  were  piercing  as  an  eagle's;  clear,  open,  strange. 
There  was  sorrow  in  the  face,  I  saw,  as  I  looked  so  earnestly 
into  it;  and  it  was  worn  as  if  with  a  keen  inner  life.  This 
glance  was  one  of  those  which  penetrate  deep,  not  the  glance 
of  a  moment,  but  a  revelation  for  hfe. 

"  He  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

^'  NicM  wahr?"  said  the  other  softly. 

"  Look  here,"  I  added,  going  to  a  sofa  which  was  strewn 
with  papers,  books,  and  other  paraphernalia;  "  couldn't  we  put 
him  here,  and  then  go  and  see  about  the  rooms?  Such  a 
young,  tender  child  must  not  be  carried  about  the  passages, 
and  the  house  is  full  of  draughts." 

I  do  not  know  what  had  so  suddenly  supphed  me  with  this 
wisdom  as  to  what  was  good  for  a  "  young,  tender  child,"  nor 
can  I  account  for  the  sudden  deep  interest  which  possessed 
me.  I  dashed  the  things  off  the  sofa,  beat  the  dust  from  it, 
desired  him  to  wait  one  moment  while  I  rushed  to  my  bed  to 
ravish  it  of  its  pillow.  Then,  with  the  sight  of  the  bed  (I  was 
buying  my  experience),  I  knew  that  that,  and  not  the  sofa, 
was  the  place  for  the  child,  and  said  so. 

"Put  him  here,  do  put  him  here!"  I  besought  earnestly. 
"  He  will  sleep  for  a  time  here,  won't  he?  " 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  my  visitor,  hesitating  a  moment. 

"  Put  him  there!  "  said  I,  flushed  with  excitement,  and  with 
the  hitherto  unknown  joy  of  being  able  to  offer  hospitality. 

Courvoisier  looked  meditatively  at  me  for  a  short  time,  then 
laid  the  clfild  upon  the  bed,  and  arranged  the  plaid  around 
it  as  skillfully  and  as  quickly  as  a  woman  would  have 
done  it. 

"  How  clever  he  must  bel "  I  thought,  looking  at  him  with 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  115 

awe,  and  with,  little  less  awe  contemplating  the  motionless 
child. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  something  to  put  over  him?  "  I  asked, 
looking  excitedly  about.  "  I  have  an  overcoat.  I'll  lend  it 
you."  And  I  was  rushing  off  to  fetch  it,  but  he  laughingly 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm^ 

"  Let  him  alone,"  said  hfe;  "  he's  all  right." 

"He  won't  fall  off,  will  he?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"  No;  don't  be  alarmed.  Now,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  we 
will  see  about  the  rooms." 

"  Dare  you  leave  him?  "  I  asked,  still  with  anxiety,  and 
looking  back  as  we  went  toward  the  door. 

"  I  dare  because  I  must,"  replied  he. 

He  closed  the  door,  and  we  went  downstairs  to  seek  the 
persons  in  authority.  Courvoisier  related  his  business  and 
condition,  and  asked  to  see  rooms.  The  woman  hesitated 
when  she  heard  there  was  a  child. 

"  The  child  will  never  trouble  you,  madame,"  said  he 
quietly,  but  rather  as  if  the  patience  of  his  look  were  forced. 

"  No,  never! "  I  added  fervently.  ^'  I  will  answer  for 
that,  Frau  Schmidt." 

A  quick  glance,  half  gratitude,  half  amusement,  shot  from 
his  eyes  as  the  woman  went  on  to  say  that  she  only  took 
gentlemen  lodgers,  and  could  not  do  with  ladies,  children, 
and  nursemaids.  They  wanted  so  much  attending  to,  and 
she  did  not  profess  to  open  her  house  to  them. 

"  You  will  not  be  troubled  with  either  lady  or  nursemaid," 
said  he.  "  I  take  charge  of  the  child  myself.  You  will  not 
know  that  he  is  in  the  house." 

"  But  your  wife "  she  began. 

"  There  will  be  no  one  but  myself  and  my  little  boy,"  he 
replied,  ever  politely,  but  ever,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with 
repressed  pain  or  irritation, 

"  So! "  said  the  woman,  treating  him  to  a  long,  curious, 
unsparing  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry,  which  made  me  feel 
hot  all  over.  He  returned  the  glance  quietly  and  unsmil- 
ingly.     After  a  pause  she  said: 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  see  about  it,  but  it  will  be  the  first 
child  I  ever  took  into  the  house,  in  that  way,  and  only  as  a 
favor  to  Herr  Helfen." 

I  was  greatly  astonished,  not  having  known  before  that  I 
stood  in  such  high  esteem.  Courvoisier  threw  me  a  smiling 
glance  as  we  followed  the  woman  up  the  stairs,  up  to  the  top 


114  TEE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

of  the  house,  where  I  lived.  Throwing  open  a  floor,  she  said 
these  were  two  rooms  which  must  go  together.  Courvoisier 
shook  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  want  two  rooms,"  said  he,  "  or  rather,  I  don't 
think  I  can  afford  them.     What  do  you  charge?  " 

She  told  him. 

"  If  it  were  so  much,"  said  he,  naming  a  smaller  sum,  "  I 
could  do  it." 

"Nie!"  said  the  woman  curtly,  "for  that  I  can't  do  it. 
(Z7m  GoUeswillen!     One  must  live." 

She  paused,  reflecting,  and  I  watched  anxiously.  She 
was  going  to  refuse.  My  heart  sunk.  Kapidly  reviewing 
my  own  circumstances  and  finances,  and  making  a  hasty  calcu- 
lation in  my  mind,  I  said: 

"  Why  can't  we  arrange  it?  Here  is  a  big  room  and  a  lit- 
tle room.  Make  the  little  room  into  a  bedroom,  and  use  the 
big  room  for  a  sitting  room.  I  will  join  at  it,  and  so  it  will 
come  ^vithin  the  price  you  wish  to  pay." 

The  woman's  face  cleared  a  little.  She  had  listened  with  a 
clouded  expression  and  her  head  on  one  side.  Now  she 
straightened  herself,  drew  herself  up,  smoothed  down  her 
apron,  and  said: 

"  Yes,  that  lets  itself  be  heard.  If  Herr  Helf en  agreed  to 
that,  she  would  like  it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  think  of  putting  you  to  the  extra  ex- 
pense," said  Courvoisier. 

"  I  should  like  it,"  said  I.  "  I  have  often  vsdshed  I  had  a 
little  more  room,  but,  like  you,  I  couldn't  afford  the  whole 
expense.  We  can  have  a  piano,  and  the  child  can  play  there. 
Don't  you  see?  "  I  added  with  great  earnestness,  and  touching 
his  arm.  "  It  is  a  large,  airy  room;  he  can  run  about  there, 
and  make  as  much  noise  as  he  likes." 

He  still  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"I  can  afford  it,"  said  I.  "I've  no  one  but  myself,  un- 
luckily. If  you  don't  object  to  my  company,  let  us  try  it. 
We  shall  be  neighbors  in  the  orchestra." 

"So!" 

"WTiy  not  at  home,  too?  I  think  it  an  excellent  plan. 
Let  us  decide  it  so." 

I  was  very  urgent  about  it.  An  hour  ago  I  could  not  have 
conceived  anything  wliich  could  make  me  so  urgent  and  set 
my  heart  beating  so. 

"  If  I  did  not  think  it  would  inconvenience  you,"  he  began. 


THE  FIBST  YIOLm.  115 

"  Then  it  is  settled?  "  said  I.  "  Now  let  us  go  and  see  what 
kind  of  furniture  there  is  in  that  hig  room." 

Without  allowing  liim  to  utter  any  further  objection,  I 
dragged  him  to  the  large  room,  and  we  surveyed  it.  The 
woman,  who,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  appeared  to  have 
recovered  her  good  temper  in  a  marvelous  manner,  said  quite 
cheerfully  that  she  would  send  the  maid  to  make  the  smaller 
room  ready  as  a  bedroom  for  two.  "  One  of  us  won't  take 
much  room,"  said  Courvoisier  with  a  laugh,  to  which  she 
assented  with  a  smile,  and  then  left  us.  The  big  room  was 
long,  low,  and  rather  dark.  Beams  were  across  the  ceiling, 
and  two  not  very  large  windows  looked  upon  the  street  below, 
across  to  two  smaller  windows  of  another  lodging  house,  a 
Little  to  the  left  of  which  was  the  Tonhalle.  The  floor  was 
carpetless,  but  clean;  there  was  a  big  square  table,  and  some 
chairs. 

"  There,"  said  I,  drawing  Courvoisier  to  the  window,  and 
pointing  across;  "  there  is  one  scene  of  your  future  exertions, 
the  Stadtische  Tonhalle." 

"  So!  "  said  he,  turning  away  again  from  the  window — it 
was  as  dark  as  ever  outside — and  looking  round  the  room 
again.  "This  is  a  dull-looking  place,"  he  added,  gazing 
around  it. 

"  We'll  soon  make  it  different,"  said  I,  rubbing  my  hands 
and  gazing  around  the  room  with  avidity.  "  I  have  long 
wished  to  be  able  to  inhabit  this  room.  We  must  make  it 
more  cheerful,  though,  before  the  cliild  comes  to  it.  We'll 
have  the  stove  lighted,  and  we'll  knock  up  some  shelves,  and 
we'll  have  a  piano  in,  and  the  sofa  from  my  room,  niclit  walir? 
Oh,  we'll  make  a  place  of  it,  I  can  tell  you!  " 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  struck  with  my  enthusiasm,  and  I 
bustled  about.  We  set  to  work  to  make  the  room  habitable. 
He  was  out  for  a  short  time  at  the  station  and  returned  with 
the  luggage  which  he  had  left  there.  While  he  was  away 
I  stole  into  my  room  and  took  a  good  look  at  my  new  treas- 
ure; he  still  slept  peacefully  and  calmly  on.  We  were  deep 
in  impromptu  carpentering  and  contrivances  for  use  and  com- 
fort, when  it  occurred  to  me  to  look  at  rriy  watch. 

"  Five  minutes  to  seven! "  I  almost  yelled,  dashing  wildly 
into  my  room  to  wash  my  hands  and  get  my  violin.  Cour- 
voisier followed  me.  The  child  was  awake.  I  felt  a  horrible 
sense  of  guilt  as  I  saw  it  looking  at  me  with  great,  soft, 
solemn  brown  eyes,  not  in  the  least  those  of  its  father;  but  it 


116  THE  FIBST  VIOLm. 

did  not  move.  I  said  apologetically  that  I  feared  X  Had 
awakened  it. 

"  Oh,  no!  He's  been  awake  for  some  time,"  said  Courvoi- 
sier.  The  child  saw  him,  and  stretched  out  its  arms  toward 
him. 

"  Na!  junger  Taugenichts ! "  he  said,  taking  it  up  and  kiss- 
ing it.  "Thou  must  stay  here  till  I  come  back.  "Wilt  be 
happy  till  I  come  ?  " 

The  answer  made  by  the  mournful-looking  child  was  a 
Angular  one.  It  put  both  tiny  arms  around  the  big  man's 
neck,  laid  its  face  for  a  moment  against  his,  and  loosed  him 
Again.  Neither  word  nor  sound  did  it  emit  during  the  proc- 
ess. A  feeling  altogether  new  and  astonishing  overcame  me. 
I  turned  hastily  away,  and  as  I  picked  up  my  violin  case,  was 
amazed  to  find  my  eyes  dim.  My  visitors  were  something 
unprecedented  to  me. 

"  You  are  not  compelled  to  go  to  the  theater  to-night,  you 
Imow,  unless  you  like,"  I  suggested,  as  we  went  downstairs. 

"  Thanks;  it  is  as  well  to  begin  at  once." 

On  the  lowest  landing  we  met  Frau  Schmidt. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  meine  Herren  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  To  work,  madame,"  he  replied,  lifting  his  cap  with  a 
courtesy  which  seemed  to  disarm  her. 

"  But  the  child?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him." 

"Is  he  asleep?" 

"  Not  just  now.     He  is  all  right,  though." 

She  gave  us  a  look  wliich  meant  volumes.  I  pulled  Cour- 
Voisier  out. 

"  Come  along,  do !  "  cried  I.  "  She  will  keep  you  there  for 
half  an  hour,  and  it  is  time  now." 

We  rushed  along  the  streets  too  rapidly  to  have  time  or 
breath  to  speak,  and  it  was  five  minutes  after  the  time  when 
ve  scrambled  into  the  orchestra,  and  foimd  that  the  overture 
V&s  already  begun. 

Though  there  is  certainly  not  much  time  for  observing  one's 
fellows  when  one  is  helping  in  the  overture  to  "  Tannhauser," 
yet  I  saw  the  many  curious  and  astonished  glances  which  were 
cast  toward  our  new  member,  glances  of  which  he  took  no 
notice,  simply  because  he  apparently  did  not  see  them.  He 
had  the  finest  absence  of  self-consciousness  that  I  ever  saw. 

The  first  act  of  the  opera  was  over,  and  it  fell  to  my  share  to 
make  Courvoisier  known  to  his  fellow-musicians.    I  intro- 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  11? 

duced  him  to  the  director,  who  was  not  Von  Francius,  nor 
any  friend  of  his.  Then  we  retired  to  one  of  the  small  rooms 
on  one  side  of  the  orchestra. 

" Hundewetter ! "  said  one  of  the  men,  shivering.  "Have 
you  traveled  far  to-day  ?  "  he  inquired  of  Courvoisier,  by  wa^; 
of  opening  the  conversation. 

"  From  Koln,  only." 

"Live  there?" 

"  No." 

The  man  continued  his  catechism,  but  in  another  direction. 
**  Are  you  a  friend  of  Helfen's?  " 

"I  rather  think  Helfen  has  been  a  friend  to  me/'  said 
Courvoisier,  smiling. 

"  Have  you  found  lodgings  already?  " 

"Yes?" 

"  So! "  said  his  interlocutor,  rather  puzzled  with  the  new 
arrival.  I  remember  the  scene  well.  Half  a  dozen  of  the 
men  were  standing  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  smoking,  drink- 
ing beer,  and  laughing  over  some  not  very  brilliant  joke;  we 
three  were  a  Uttle  apart.  Courvoisier,  stately  and  imposing- 
looking,  and  with  that  fine  manner  of  his,  politely  answering 
his  interrogator,  a  small,  sharp-featured  man,  who  looked  up 
to  him  and  rattled  complacently  awa}^,  while  I  sat  upon  the 
table  among  the  fiddle  cases  and  beer  glasses,  my  foot  on  a 
chair,  my  chin  in  my  hand,  feeling  my  cheeks  glow,  and  a 
strange  sense  of  dizziness  and  weakness  all  over  me;  a  light- 
ness in  my  head  which  I  could  not  understand.  It  had  quite 
escaped  me  that  I  had  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since  my 
breakfast  at  eight  o'clock,  on  a  cup  of  coffee  and  dry  Brod- 
clien,  and  it  was  now  twelve  hours  later. 

The  pause  was  not  a  long  one,  and  we  returned  to  our 
places.  But  "  Tannhauser  "  is  not  a  short  opera.  As  time 
went  on  my  sensations  of  illness  and  faintness  increased. 
During  the  second  pause  I  remained  in  my  place.  Courvoi- 
sier presently  came  and  sat  beside  me. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  feel  ill,"  said  he. 

I  denied  it.  But  though  I  struggled  on  to  the  end,  yet  at 
last  a  deadly  faintness  overcame  me.  As  the  curtain  went 
down  amid  the  applause,  everything  reeled  around  me.  I 
heard  the  bustle  of  the  others — of  the  audience  going  away. 
I  mj^self  could  not  move. 

"  Was  ist  denn  mit  ihm?  "  I  heard  Courvoisier  say  as  he 
stooped  over  me. 


118  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Is  that  Friedhelm  Helfen?  "  asked  Karl  Linders,  survey- 
ing me.  "  Potz  blitz!  he  looks  like  a  corpse!  he's  been  at  his 
old  tricks  again,  starving  himself.  I  expect  he  has  touched 
nothing  the  whole  day." 

"  Let's  get  him  out  and  give  him  some  brandy,"  said  Cour- 
voisier.  "  Lend  him  an  arm,  and  I'll  give  him  one  on  this 
side." 

Together  they  hauled  me  down  to  the  retiring  room. 

"  Ei!  he  wants  a  schnapps,  or  something  of  the  kind,"  said 
Karl,  who  seemed  to  think  the  whole  affair  an  excellent  joke. 
"  Look  here,  alter  JSfarr! "  he  added;  "  you've  been  going  with- 
out anything  to  eat,  niclit?  " 

"  I  believe  I  have,"  I  assented  feebly.  "  But  I'm  all  right; 
I'll  go  home." 

Eejecting  Karl's  pressing  entreaties  to  join  him  at  supper 
at  his  favorite  Wirthsehaft,  we  went  home,  purchasing  our 
supper  on  the  way.  Courvoisier's  first  step  was  toward  the 
place  where  he  had  left  the  child.     He  was  gone. 

"  Verscliwunden!"  cried  he,  striding  off  to  the  sleeping 
room,  whither  I  followed  him.  The  little  lad  had  been 
undressed  and  put  to  bed  in  a  small  crib,  and  wa§  sleeping 
serenely. 

"That's  Frau  Schmidt,  who  can't  do  with  children  and 
nursemaids,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  her,"  said  he,  as  he  touched  the  child's 
cheek  slightly  with  his  little  finger,  and  then,  without  another 
word,  returned  to  the  other  room,  and  we  sat  down  to  our 
long-delayed  supper. 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  spend  more  than  twelve  hours 
without  food?  "  he  asked  me,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  looking  at  me. 

"I'll  tell  you  sometime,  perhaps,  not  now,"  said  I,  for 
there  had  begun  to  da^vn  upon  my  mind,  like  a  sun  ray,_  the 
idea  that  life  held  an  interest  for  me — two  interests — a  friend 
and  a  child.  To  a  miserable,  lonely  wretch  like  me,  the  idea 
was  divine. 


TEE  FIB3T  VIOLm,  il9 


.,  CHAPTER  II. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower, 

We  will  grieve  not — rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been,  must  ever  be. 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ! 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death— 

In  years,  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

— Wordsworth. 

Fkom  that  October  afternoon  I  was  a  man  saved  from  my- 
self. Courvoisier  had  said,  in  answer  to  my  earnest  entreaties 
about  joining  housekeeping:  "  We  will  try — you  may  not  like 
it,  and  if  so,  remember  you  are  at  liberty  to  withdraw  when 
you  will."  The  answer  contented  me,  because  I  knew  that 
I  should  not  try  to  withdraw. 

Our  friendship  progressed  by  such  quiet,  imperceptible 
degrees,  each  one  knotting  the  past  more  closely  and  inextri- 
cably with  the  present,  that  I  could  by  no  means  relate  them 
if  I  wished  it.  But  I  do  not  wish  it.  I  only  know,  and  am 
content  with  it,  that  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  be  blessed  with 
that  most  precious  of  all  earthly  possessions,  the  "friend" 
that  "  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother."  Our  union  has  gro^vn 
and  remained  not  merely  '' fest  und  treu/'  but  immovable, 
unshakable. 

There  was  first  the  child.  He  was  two  years  old;  a  strange, 
weird,  silent  child,  very  beautiful — as  the  son  of  liis  father 
could  scarcely  fail  to  be — but  with  a  different  kind  of  beauty. 
How  still  he  was,  and  how  patient!  Not  a  fretful  child,  not 
given  to  crying  or  complaint;  fond  of  resting  in  one  place, 
with  solemn,  thoughtful  eyes  fixed,  when  his  father  was  there, 
upon  him;  when  liis  father  was  not  there,  upon  the  strip  of 
sky  which  was  to  be  seen  through  the  window  above  the 
house  tops. 

The  child's  name  was  Sigmund;  he  displayed  a  friendly 
disposition  toward  me,  indeed,  he  was  passively  friendly  and 
— if  one  may  say  such  a  thing  of  a  baby — courteous  to  all  he 
came  in  contact  with.  He  had  inherited  his  father's  polished 
manner;  one  saw  that  when  he  grew  up  he  would  be  a  "  gen- 
tleman," in.  the  finest  outer  sense  of  the  word.    His  inner 


120  TEE  FIRST  VTOZm. 

life  he  kept  concealed  from  us.  I  believe  he  had  some  method 
of  communicating  his  ideas  to  Eugen,  even  if  he  never  spoke. 
Eugen  never  could  conceal  his  own  mood  from  the  child;  it 
knew — let  him  feign  otherwise  never  so  cunningly — exactly 
what  he  felt,  glad  or  sad,  or  between  the  two,  and  no  acting 
could  deceive  him.  It  was  a  strange,  intensely  interesting 
study  to  me;  one  to  which  I  daily  returned  with  fresh  avidity. 
He  would  let  me  take  him  in  my  arms  and  talk  to  him; 
would  sometimes,  after  looking  at  me  long  and  earnestly, 
break  into  a  smile — a  strange,  grave,  sweet  smile.  Then  I 
could  do  no  otherwise  than  set  him  hastily  down  and  look 
away,  for  so  unearthly  a  smile  I  had  n'Sver  seen.  He  was, 
though  fragile,  not  an  unhealthy  child;  though  so  dehcately 
formed,  and  intensely  sensitive  to  nervous  shocks,  had  nothing 
of  the  coward  in  him,  as  was  proved  to  us  in  a  thousand  ways; 
he  shivered  through  and  through  his  little  frame  at  the  sight 
of  a  certain  picture  to  which  he  had  talven  a  great  antipathy, 
a  picture  which  hung  in  the  public  gallery  at  the  Tonhalle; 
he  hated  it,  because  of  a  certain  evil-looking  man  portrayed 
in  it;  but  when  his  father,  taking  his  hand  said  to  liim,  "  Go, 
Sigmund,  and  look  at  that  man;  I  wish  thee  to  look  at  him," 
went  without  turn  or  waver,  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at 
the  low-type,  bestial  visage  portrayed  to  him.  Eugen  had 
trodden  noiselessly  behind  him;  I  watched,  and  he  watched, 
how  his  two  little  iists  chnched  themselves  at  his  sides,  wliile 
his  gaze  never  wavered,  never  wandered,  till  at  last  Eugen, 
with  a  strange  expression,  caught  him  in  liis  arms  and  half 
killed  him  with  kisses. 

"  Mein  Liebling!  "  he  murmured,  as  if  utterly  satisfied  with 
3iim. 

Courvoisier  himself?  There  were  a  great  many  strong  and 
positive  qualities  about  this  man,  which  in  themselves  would 
have  set  him  somewhat  apart  from  other  men.  Thus  he  had 
crotchety  ideas  about  truth  and  honor,  such  as  one  might  ex- 
pect from  so  knightly-looking  a  personage.  It  was  Karl  Lin- 
ders  who,  at  a  later  period  of  our  acquaintance,  amused  him- 
self by  chalking  up,  "  Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Eitter,"  beneath 
his  name.  His  musical  talent — or  rather  genius,  it  was  more 
than  talent — was  at  that  time  not  one-fifth  part  known  to  me, 
yet  even  what  I  saw  excited  my  wonder.  But  these,  and  a 
long  list  of  other  active  characteristics,  all  faded  into  insig- 
nificance before  the  towering  passion  of  his  existence — his 
love  for  his  child.    It  was  strange,  it  was  toucliing,  to  see  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  121 

bond  between  father  and  son.  The  child's  thoughts  and 
words,  as  told  in  his  eyes  and  from  his  lips,  formed  the  man's 
philosophy,  I  believe  Eugen  confided  everything  to  his  boy. 
His  first  thought  in  the  morning,  his  last  at  night,  was  for  der 
Kleine.  His  leisure  was — I  cannot  say  "given  up"  to  the 
boy — but  it  was  always  passed  with  him. 

Courvoisier  soon  gained  a  reputation  among  our  comrades 
for  being  a  sham  and  a  delusion.  They  said  that  to  look  at 
him  one  would  suppose  that  no  more  genial,  jovial  fellow 
could  exist — there  was  kindliness  in  his  glance,  Ion  camara- 
derie in  his  voice,  a  genial,  open,  human  sympathetic  kind  of 
influence  in  his  nature,  and  in  all  he  did.  "  And  yet,"  said 
Karl  Linders  to  me,  with  gesticulation,  "  one  never  can  get 
him  to  go  anywhere.  One  may  invite  him,  one  may  try  to  be 
friends  with  him,  but,  no!  off  he  goes  home!  What  does  the 
fellow  want  at  home?  He  behaves  like  a  young  miss  of 
fifteen,  whose  governess  won't  let  her  mix  with  vulgar 
companions." 

I  laughed,  despite  myseK,  at  this  tirade  of  Karl.  So  that 
was  how  Eugen's  behavior  struck  outsiders! 

"  And  you  are  every  bit  as  bad  as  he  is,  and  as  soft — he  has 
made  you  so,"  went  on  Linders  vehemently.  "  It  isn't 
right.  You  two  ought  to  be  leaders  outside  as  well  as  in, 
but  you  walk  yourselves  away,  and  stay  at  home!  At 
home,  indeed!  Let  green  goslings  and  grandfathers  stay  at 
home." 

Indeed,  Herr  Linders  Avas  not  a  person  who  troubled  home 
much;  spending  his  time  between  morning  and  night  be- 
tween the  theater  and  concert-room,  restauration  and  verein. 

"  What  do  you  do  at  home  ?  "  he  asked  irately. 

"  That's  our  concern,  mein  lieher,"  said  I  composedly,  think- 
ing of  young  Sigmund,  v/hose  existence  was  unknown  except 
to  our  two  selves,  and  laughing. 

"  Are  you  composing  a  symphony?  or  an  opera  buff  a?  You 
might  tell  a  fellow." 

I  laughed  again,  and  said  we  led  a  peaceable  life,  as  honest 
citizens  should;  and  added,  la5dng  my  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der, for  I  had  more  of  a  leaning  toward  Karl,  scamp  though 
he  was,  than  to  any  of  the  others,  "  You  might  do  worse  than 
follow  our  example,  old  fellow." 

"  Bah!  "  said  he  with  unutterable  contempt.  "  I'm  a  man; 
not  a  milksop.  Besides,  how  do  I  know  what  ycur  example 
is?    You  say  you  behave  yourselves;  but  how  aOk.  I  to  know 


122  TEE  FIRST  VlOZm. 

it?    I'll  drop  upon  you  unawares  and  catcli  you  some  time. 
See  if  I  don't." 

The  next  evening,  by  a  rare  chance  with  us,  was  a  free 
one — there  was  no  opera  and  no  concert;  we  had  had  probe 
that  morning,  and  were  at  liberty  to  follow  the  devices  and 
desires  of  our  own  hearts  that  evening. 

These  devices  and  desires  led  us  straight  home,  followed 
by  a  sneering  laugh  from  Herr  Linders,  which  vastly  amused 
me.  The  year  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Christmas  was  nigh; 
the  weather  was  cold  and  unfriendly.  Our  stove  was  hghted^ 
our  lamp  burned  pleasantly  on  the  table;  our  big  room  looked 
homely  and  charming  by  these  evening  lights.  Master  Sig- 
mund  was  wide  awake  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  and  sat  upon 
my  knee  while  his  father  played  the  fiddle.  I  have  not 
spoken  of  his  playing  before — it  was,  in  its  way,  unique.  It 
was  not  a  violin  that  he  played — ^it  was,  a  spirit  that  he  in- 
Yoked — and  a  strange  answer  it  sometimes  gave  forth  to  his 
<5nmmons.  To-night  he  had  taken  it  up  suddenly,  and  sat 
playing,  without  book,  a  strange  melody  which  wrung  mj 
lieart — full  of  minor  cadences,  with  an  infinite  wail  and  weari- 
ness in  it.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  listened.  It  was  sad,  but  it 
was  absorbing.  When  I  opened  my  eyes  again,  and  looked 
down,  I  found  that  the  tears  were  running  from  Sigmund's 
eyes.    He  was  sobbing  quietly,  his  head  against  my  breast. 

"  I  say,  Eugen!    Look  here!  " 

"  Is  he  crying?  Poor  little  chap!  He'll  have  a  good  deal  to 
go  through  before  he  has  learned  all  his  lessons,"  said  Eugen, 
lying  down  his  violin. 

"  What  was  that?    I  never  heard  it  before." 

"  I  have  often,"  said  he,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hand, 
"in  the  sound  of  streams — in  the  rush  of  a  crowd — ^upon  a 

mountain — yes,    even   alone   with   the   woman   I "    IJ@ 

broke  off  abruptly. 

"  Buc  never  on  a  violin  before?  "  said  I  significantly. 

"  No,  never." 
■    "  Why  don't  you  print  some  of  those  impromptus  you  8X3 
always  making?  "  I  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Ere  I  could  pursue  the  ques- 
tion someone  knocked  at  the  door,  and  in  answer  to  our 
Herein!  appeared  a  handsome,  laughing  face,  and  a  head  of 
wavy  hair,  which,  with  a  tall,  shapely  figure,  I  recognized  as 
those  of  Karl  Linders. 

"  I  told  you  fellows  I'd  hunt  you  up,  and  I  always  keep  my 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  123 

word,"  said  he  composedly.  "  You  can't  very  well  turn  me 
out  for  calling  upon  you." 

He  advanced.  Courvoisier  rose,  and,  with  a  courteous  cor- 
diality, oSered  his  hand  and  drew  a  chair  up.  Karl  came  for- 
ward, looking  round,  smiling  and  chuckling  at  the  success  of 
his  experiment,  and  as  he  came  opposite  to  me  his  eyes  fell 
upon  those  of  the  child,  who  had  raised  his  head  and  was 
staring  gravely  at  him/ 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  start — the  look  of  amaze,  almost 
of  fear — which  shot  across  the  face  of  Herr  Linders.  Amaze- 
ment would  be  a  weak  word  in  which  to  describe  it.  He 
stopped,  stood  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  room;  liis  jaw 
fell;  he  gazed  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  in  feeble  astonish- 
ment, then  said,  in  a  whisper: 

"  Donnerivetter !    A  child!  " 

"  Don't  use  bad  language  before  the  little  innocent,"  said 
I,  enjoying  his  confusion. 

"  Which  of  you  does  he  belong  to?  Is  it  he  or  she?  "  he 
inquired  in  an  awe-struck  and  alarmed  manner. 

"  His  name  is  Sigmund  Courvoisier,"  said  I,  with  difficulty 
preserving  my  gravity. 

*'  Oh,  indeed!  I — I  wasn't  aware "  began  Karl,  look- 
ing at  Eugen  in  such  a  peculiar  manner — half  respectful,  half 
timid,  half  ashamed — that  I  could  no  longer  retain  my  feel- 
ings, but  burst  into  such  a  shout  of  laughter  as  I  had  not 
enjoyed  for  years.  After  a  moment  Eugen  joined  in;  we 
laughed  peal  after  peal  of  laughter,  while  poor  Karl  stood 
feebly  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  company — speech- 
less— crestfallen. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  at  last;  "  I  won't  intrude  any 
longer.    Good " 

He  was  making  for  the  door,  but  Eugen  made  a  dash  after 
him,  turned  him  round,  and  pushed  him  into  a  chair. 

"  Sit  down,  man,"  he  said,  stifling  liis  laughter.  "  Sit 
down,  man;  do  you  think  the  poor  little  chap  will  hurt  you?  " 

Karl  cast  a  distrustful  glance  sideways  at  my  nursling,  and 
spoke  not. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  pursued  Eugen.  "  Why  didn't  you 
come  before?  " 

At  that  Karl's  hps  began  to  twitch  with  a  humorous  smile; 
presently  he,  too,  began  to  laugh,  and  seemed  not  to  know 
how  or  when  to  stop. 

"  It  beats  all  I  ever  saw  or  heard  or  dreamed  of,"  said  he 


124  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN: 

at  last.  "That's  what  brought  you  home  in  such  a  hurry 
every  night.  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Friedel!  You  make 
a  first-rate  nurse;  when  everything  else  fails  I  will  give  you  a 
character  as  Kinder mddchen — clean,  sober,  industrious,  and 
not  given  to  running  after  young  men."  With  which  he 
roared  again,  and  Sigmund  surveyed  him  with  a  somewhat 
severe,  though  scarcely  a  disapproving,  expression.  Karl 
seated  himself  near  him,  and,  though  not  yet  venturing  to 
address  him,  cast  curiou»  glances  of  blandishment  and  per- 
suasion upon  him. 

Half  an  hour  passed  thus,  and  a  second  knock  was  followed 
by  the  entrance  of  Frau  Schmidt. 

*'  Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  she  remarked,  in  a  tone  which 
said  unutterable  things — scorn,  contempt,  pity — all  finely 
blended  into  a  withering  sneer,  as  she  cast  her  eyes  around, 
and  a  slight,  but  awful,  smile  played  about  her  lips.  ^'  HaK- 
past  eight,  and  that  blessed  baby  not  in  bed  yet.  I  knew  how 
it  would  be.  And  you  all  smoking,  too — naturlich!  Yon 
ought  to  know  better,  Herr  Courvoisier — you  ought,  at  any 
rate,"  she  added,  scorn  dropping  into  heart-piercing  reproach. 
'*  Give  him  to  me,"  she  added,  taking  him  from  me,  and  apos- 
trophizing him.  "You  poor,  blessed  lamb!  Well  for  you  that 
I'm  here  to  look  after  you,  that  have  had  children  of  my  own, 
and  know  a  little  about  the  sort  of  way  that  you  ought  to  be 
brought  up  in." 

Evident  signs  of  uneasiness  on  Karl's  part,  as  Frau 
Schmidt,  with  the  same  extraordinary  contortion  of  the 
mouth — half  smile,  half  sneer — brought  Sigmund  to  big 
father,  to  say  good-night.  That  process  over,  he  was  brought 
to  me;  and  then,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  which  "  understood 
itself,"  to  Karl.  Eugen  and  I,  like  family  men,  as  we  were, 
had  gone  through  the  ceremony  with  willing  grace.  Karl 
backed  his  chair  a  little,  looked  much  alarmed,  shot  a  queer 
glance  at  us,  at  the  child,  and  then  appealingly  up  into  the 
womfln's  face.    We,  through  our  smoke,  watched  him. 

**  He  looks  so  very — very "  he  began. 

"  Come,  come,  mein  Herr,  what  does  that  mean?  Kiss  the 
little  angel,  and  be  thankful  you  may.  The  innocent!  You 
ought  to  be  delighted,"  said  she,  standing  with  grenadier-Hke 
stiffness  beside  him. 

"  He  won't  bite  you,  Karl,"  I  said  reassuringly.  "  He's 
quite  harmless." 

Thus   encouraged,    Herr    Linders    stooped   forward    and 


THE  FIBST  riOLim  195 

touched  the  cheek  of  the  child  with  his  lips;  then,  as  if  sur- 
prised, stroked  it  with  his  finger. 

*' Lieber  Himmel!  how  soft!  Like  satin,  or  rose-leaves!" 
he  murmured,  as  the  woman  carried  the  child  away,  shut  the 
door  and  disappeared. 

"Does  she  tackle  you  in  that  way  every  night?"  he  in- 
quired next. 

"  Every  evening,"  said  Eugen.  "  And  I  little  dare  open  my 
lips  before  her.  You  would  notice  how  quiet  I  kept.  It's 
because  I'm  afraid  of  her." 

Frau  Schmidt,  who  had  at  first  objected  so  strongly  to  the 
advent  of  the  child,  was  now  devoted  to  it,  and  would  have 
resented  exceedingly  the  idea  of  allowing  anyone  but  herself 
to  put  it  to  bed,  dress  or  undress  it,  or  look  after  it  in  general. 
Tliis  state  of  things  had  crept  on  very  gradually;  she  had 
never  said  how  fond  she  was  of  the  child,  but  put  her  kind- 
ness upon  the  ground  that  as  a  Christian  woman  she  could 
not  stand  by  and  see  it  mishandled  by  a  couple  of  men,  and 
oh!  the  unutterable  contempt  upon  the  word  "  men."  Under 
this  disguise  she  attempted  to  cover  the  fact  that  she  delighted 
to  have  it  with  her,  to  kiss  it,  fondle  it,  admire  it,  and  "  do 
for  it."  We  know  now  that  no  sooner  had  we  left  the  house 
than  the  child  would  be  brought  down,  and  would  never  leave 
the  care  of  Frau  Schmidt  until  our  return,  or  until  he  was  in 
bed  and  asleep.  She  said  he  was  a  quiet  child,  and  "  did  not 
give  so  much  trouble."  Indeed,  the  little  fellow  won  a 
friend  in  whoever  saw  him.  He  had  made  another  conquest 
to-night.  Karl  Linders,  after  puffing  away  for  some  time, 
inquired,  with  an  affectation  of  indifference: 

"  How  old  is  he — der  Jcleine  Bengelf  " 

"  Two — a  little  more." 

"  Handsome  little  fellow! " 

"  Glad  you  think  so." 

"  Sure  of  it.  But  I  didn't  know,  Courvoisier — so  sure  as  I 
live,  I  knew  nothing  about  it!  " 

"  I  dare  say  not.    Did  I  ever  say  you  did?  " 

I  saw  that  Karl  washed  to  ask  another  question — one  which 
had  trembled  upon  my  own  lips  many  a  time,  but  which  I  had 
never  asked — which  I  knew  that  I  never  should  ask.  "  The 
mother  of  that  child — is  she  ahve  or  dead?  Why  may  we 
never  hear  one  word  of  her?  Why  this  silence,  as  of  the 
grave?  Was  she  your  wife?  Did  you  love  her?  Did  she  love 
you  2  " 


126  TEE  FIBST  YIOLm. 

Questions"  which  could  not  fail  to  come  to  me,  and  ahout 
which  my  thoughts  would  hang  for  hours.  I  could  imagine 
a  woman  being  very  deeply  in  love  with  Courvoisier.  Whether 
he  would  love  very  deeply  himself,  whether  love  would  form  a 
mainspring  of  his  life  and  actions,  or  whether  it  took  only  a 
secondary  place — I  speak  of  the  love  of  woman — I  could  not 
guess.  I  could  decide  upon  many  points  of  his  character. 
He  was  a  good  friend,  a  high-minded  and  a  pure-minded  man; 
his  everyday  life,  the  turn  of  his  thoughts  and  conversation, 
showed  me  that  as  plainly  as  any  great  adventure  could  have 
done.  That  he  was  an  ardent  musician,  an  artist  in  the  truest 
and  deepest  sense,  of  a  quixotically  generous  and  unselfish 
nature — all  this  I  had  already  proved.  That  he  loved  his 
child  with  a  love  not  short  of  passion  was  patent  to  me  every 
day.  But  upon  the  past,  silence  so  utter  as  I  never  before 
met  with.    Not  a  hint;  not  an  allusion;  not  one  syllable. 

Little  Sigmund  was  not  yet  two  and  a  half.  The  story 
upon  which  his  father  maintained  so  deep  a  silence  was  not, 
could  not,  be  a  very  old  one.  His  behavior  gave  me  no  clew 
as  to  whether  it  had  been  a  joyful  or  a  sorrowful  one.  Mere 
silence  could  tell  me  nothing.  Some  men  are  silent  about 
their  griefs;  some  about  their  joys.  I  knew  not  in  which 
direction  his  disposition  lay. 

I  saw  Karl  look  at  him  that  evening  once  or  twice,  and  I 
trembled  lest  the  blundering,  good-natured  fellow  should 
make  the  mistake  of  asking  some  question.  But  he  did  not; 
I  need  not  have  feared.  People  were  not  in  the  habit  of  put- 
ting obtrusive  questions  to  Eugen  Courvoisier.  The  danger 
was  somehow  quickly  tided  over,  the  delicate  ground  avoided. 

The  conversation  wandered  quietly  off  to  commonplace 
topics — the  state  of  the  orchestra;  tales  of  its  doings;  the 
tempers  of  our  different  conductors — ^Malperg  of  the  opera; 
Woelff  of  the  ordinary  concerts,  which  took  place  two  or 
three  times  a  week,  when  we  fiddled  and  the  public  eat,  drank, 
and  listened;  lastly,  Von  Francius,  Jconiglicher  Musih-direJctor. 

Karl  Linders  gave  his  opinion  freely  upon  the  men  in 
authority.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  them,  nothing  to  hope 
or  fear  from  them;  he  filled  a  quiet  place  among  the  violon- 
cellists, and  had  attained  his  twenty-eighth  year  without  dis- 
playing any  violent  talent  or  tendency  to  distinguish  himself, 
otherwise  than  by  getting  as  much  mirth  out  of  hfe  as  pos- 
Bible,  and  living  in  a  perpetual  state  of  "  carlesse  contente." 

He   desired   to   know   what    Courvoisier  thought  of  Von 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  127 

Francius;  for  curiosity — the  fault  of  those  idle  persons  who 
afterward  develop  into  busybodies — was  already  beginning  to 
leave  its  traces  on  Herr  Linders.  It  was  less  known  than 
guessed  that  the  state  of  things  between  Courvoisier  and  Von 
Francius  was  less  peace  than  armed  neutrality.  The  intense 
politeness  of  Von  Francius  to  his  first  violinist,  and  the 
punctilious  ceremoniousness  of  the  latter  toward  his  chief 
were  topics  of  speculation  and  amusement  to  the  whole 
orchestra. 

"  I  think  Von  Francius  would  be  a  fiend  if  he  could/'  said 
Karl  comfortably.  "  I  wouldn't  stand  it  if  he  spoke  to  me  as 
he  speaks  to  some  people." 

"  Oh,  they  hke  it! "  said  Courvoisier;  and  Karl  stared. 
"  Girls  don't  object  to  a  little  bullying;  anything  rather  than 
be  left  quite  alone,"  Courvoisier  went  on  tranquilly. 

"  Girls!  "  ejaculated  Karl. 

"You  mean  the  young  ladies  in  the  chorus,  don't  you?" 
asked  Courvoisier  unmovedly.  "  He  does  bully  them,  1  don't 
deny;  but  they  come  back  again." 

"  Oh,  I  see! "  said  Karl,  accepting  the  rebuff. 

He  had  not  referred  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  chorus. 

"  Have  you  heard  Von  Francius  play?  "  he  began  next. 

"Naturlich!'' 

«  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  superb!  "  said  Courvoisier. 

Baffled  again,  Karl  was  silent. 

"  The  power  and  the  daring  of  it  are  grand,"  went  on 
Eugen  heartily.  "  I  could  listen  to  him  for  hours.  To  see 
him  seat  himself  before  the  piano,  as  if  he  were  sitting  down 
to  read  a  newspaper,  and  do  what  he  does,  without  moving  a 
muscle,  is  simply  superb — there's  no  other  word.  Other  men 
may  play  the  piano.  He  takes  the  keyboard  and  plays  with 
it,  and  it  says  what  he  likes." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  was  satisfied.  He  found  the  same 
want  in  Von  Francius'  "  superb  "  manipulation  that  I  did — 
the  glitter  of  a  diamond,  not  the  glow  of  a  fire. 

Karl  had  not  the  subtlety  to  retort,  "  Ay,  but  does  it  say 
what  we  like?"  He  subsided  again,  merely  giving  a  meek 
assent  to  the  proposition,  and  saying  suggestively: 

"  He's  not  liked,  though  he's  such  a  popular  fellow." 

"  The  pubHc  is  often  a  great  fool." 

"  "Well,  but  you  can't  expect  it  to  Idss  the  hand  that  slaps 
it  in  the  face^  as  Von  Francius  does,"  said  Karl,  driven  to 


128  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

metaphor,  probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  seeming 
astonished  at  having  discovered  a  hitherto  unknown  mental 
property  pertaining  to  himself. 

Courvoisier  laughed. 

"  I'm  certain  of  one  thing — Von  Francius  will  go  on  slap- 
ping the  public's  face.  I  won't  say  how  it  will  end;  but  it 
would  not  surprise  me  in  the  least  to  see  the  public  at  his 
feet,  as  it  is  now  at  those  of " 

"Humph!"  said  Karl  reflectively. 

He  did  not  stay  much  longer,  but,  having  finished  his  cigar, 
rose.  He  seemed  to  feel  very  apologetic,  and  out  of  the  full- 
ness of  his  heart  his  mouth  spake: 

"  I  really  wouldn't  have  intruded  if  I  had  known ^" 

"Known  what?"  inquired  Eugen  with  well-assumed 
surprise. 

"  I  thought  you  were  just  by  yourselves,  you  know, 
and '' 

"  So  we  were;  but  we  can  do  with  other  society.  Friedei 
here  gets  very  tedious  sometimes — ^in  fact,  langweilig.  Come 
again,  nicM  wahr?  " 

"If  I  shan't  be  in  your  way,"  said  Karl,  looking  round 
the  room  with  somewhat  wistful  eyes. 

We  assured  him  to  the  contrary,  and  he  promised,  with 
unnecessary  emphasis,  to  come  again. 

"  He  will  return;  I  know  he  will! "  said  Eugen  after  he 
had  gone. 

The  next  time  that  Herr  Linders  arrived,  which  was  ere 
many  days  had  passed,  he  looked  excited  and  important;  and, 
after  the  first  greetings  were  over,  he  undid  a  great  number 
of  papers  which  wrapped  and  infolded  a  parcel  of  consider- 
able dimensions,  and  displayed  to  our  enraptured  view  a  white, 
woolly  animal  of  stupendous  dimensions,  fastened  upon  a 
green  stand,  which  stand,  when  pressed,  caused  the  creature 
to  give  forth  a  howl  like  unto  no  lowing  of  oxen  nor  bleating 
of  sheep  ever  heard  on  earth.  This  inviting-looking  creature 
he  held  forth  toward  Sigmund,  who  stared  at  it. 

"Perhaps  he's  got  one  already?"  said  Karl,  seeing  that 
the  child  did  not  display  any  violent  enthusiasm  about  the 
treasure. 

"  Oh,  no!  "  said  Eugen  promptly. 

"  Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  what  it  is,"  I  suggested,  rather 
unkindly,  scarcely  able  to  keep  my  countenance  at  the  idea 
of  that  baby  playing  with  such  a  toy. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  129 

*'  Perhaps  not/'  said  Karl,  more  cheerfully,  kneeling  down 
by  my  side — Sigmund  sat  on  my  knee — and  squeezing  the 
stand,  so  that  the  woolly  animal  howled.  "  Siehl  Sigmund! 
Look  at  the  pretty  lamb!  " 

"Oh,  come,  Karl!  Are  you  a  lamb?  Call  it  an  eagle  at 
once,"  said  I  skeptically. 

"  It  is  a  lamb,  aint  it?  "  said  he,  turning  it  over.  "  They 
called  it  a  lamb  at  the  shop," 

"  A  very  queer  lamb — not  a  German  breed,  anyhow." 

"  Now  I  think  of  it,  my  little  sister  has  one;  but  she  calk 
it  a  rabbit,  I  believe." 

"  Very  likely.  You  might  call  that  anj^hing,  and  no  one 
could  contradict  you." 

"  Well,  der  Kleine  doesn't  know  the  difference;  it's  a  toy," 
said  Karl  desperately. 

"  iSTot  a  toy  that  seems  to  take  his  fancy  much,"  said  I,  as 
Sigmund,  with  evident  signs  of  displeasure,  turned  away  from 
the  animal  on  the  green  stand,  and  refused  to  look  at  it. 
Karl  looked  despondent. 

"He  doesn't  like  the  look  of  it,"  said  he  plaintively. 
*'  I  thought  I  was  sure  to  be  right  in  this.  My  little  sister  " 
(Karl's  httle  sister  had  certainly  never  been  so  often  quoted 
by  her  brother  before)  "  plays  for  hours  with  that  thing  that 
ehe  calls  a  rabbit." 

Eugen  had  come  to  the  rescue,  and  grasped  the  woolly 
animal  which  Karl  had  contemptuously  thrown  aside.  After 
convincing  himself  by  near  examination  as  to  which  was 
intended  for  head  and  which  for  tail,  he  presented  it  to  his 
Bon,  remarking  that  it  was  "  a  pretty  toy." 

"  I'll  pray  for  you  after  that,  Eugen — often  and  earnestly," 
Baid  I. 

Sigmund  looked  appealingly  at  liim,  but  seeing  that  his 
lather  appeared  able  to  endure  the  prescoice  of  the  beast,  and 
teemed  to  wish  him  to  do  the  same,  from  some  dark  and  in- 
ecrutable  reason  not  to  be  grasped  hj  so  young  a  mind — for 
he  was  modest  as  to  his  own  intelligence — he  put  out  his 
email  arm,  received  the  creature  into  it,  and  embraced  it 
Tound  the  body,  held  it  to  his  side,  and  looked  at  Eugen  with 
1,  pathetic  expression. 

"Pretty  plaything,  nicht  walir?"  said  Eugen  encour- 
agingly. 

Sigmund  nodded  silently.  The  animal  emitted  a  howl; 
the  child  winced,  but  looked  resigned.    Eugen  rose  and  stood 


130  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

at  some  little  distance,  looking  on.  Sigmund  continued  to 
embrace  the  animal  with  the  same  resigned  expression,  until 
Karl,  stooping,  took  it  away. 

"  You  mustn't  make  him,  just  because  I  brought  it,"  said 
he.  "Better  luck  next  time!  I  see  he's  not  a  common  child. 
I  must  try  to  think  of  something  else." 

We  commanded  our  countenances  with  difficulty,  but  pre- 
served them.  Sigmund's  feelings  had  been  severely  wounded. 
For  many  days  he  eyed  Karl  with  a  strange,  cold  glance, 
which  the  latter  used  every  art  in  his  power  to  change,  and 
at  last  succeeded.  Woolly  lambs  became  a  forbidden  subject. 
Nothing  annoyed  Karl  more  than  for  us  to  suggest,  if  Sig- 
mund  happened  to  be  a  little  cross  or  mournful,  "  Suppose 
you  just  go  home,  Karl,  and  fetch  the  '  lamb-rabbit-lion.' 
I'm  sure  he  would  like  it."  From  that  time  the  child  had 
another  worshiper,  and  we  a  constant  visitor,  in  Karl 
Linders. 

We  sat  together  one  evening — Eugen  and  I — after  Sig- 
mund  had  been  in  bed  a  long  time,  after  the  opera  was  over, 
chatting,  as  we  often  did,  or  as  often  remained  silent.  He 
had  been  reading,  and  the  book  from  which  he  read  was  a 
volume  of  English  poetry.  At  last,  laying  the  book  aside,  he 
said: 

"  The  first  night  we  met  you  fainted  away  from  exhaustion 
and  long  fasting.  You  said  you  would  tell  me  why  you  had 
allowed  yourself  to  do  so,  but  you  have  never  kept  your 
word." 

"  I  didn't  care  to  eat.  People  eat  to  live — except  those  who 
live  to  eat — and  I  was  not  very  anxious  to  live;  I  didn't  care 
for  my  life,  in  fact ;  I  wished  I  was  dead." 

"  Why?    An  unlucky  love?  " 

*'  7,  hewahre !  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in  love  in  my 
life,"  said  T,  with  perfect  truth. 

"Is  that  true,  Friedel?"  he  asked,  apparently  surprised. 

"  As  true  as  possible.  I  think  a  timely  love  affair,  however 
unlucky,  would  have  roused  me  and  brought  me  to  my 
senses  again." 

"  General  melancholy?  " 

"Oh!  I  was  alone  in  the  world.  I  had  been  reading,  read- 
ing, reading;  my  brain  was  one  dark  and  misty  muddle  of 
Kant,  Schopenhauer,  Von  Hartmann,  and  a  few  others.  I 
read  them  one  after  another,  as  quickly  as  possible;  the 
mixture  had  the  same  effect  upon  my  mind  as  iiie  indiscrim- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  ISI 

inate  contents  of  a  taffy-shop  would  have  upon  Sigmund's 
stomach — it  made  me  sick.  In  my  crude,  ungainly,  unfin- 
ished fashion  I  turned  over  my  information,  laying  down  big 
generalizations  upon  a  foundation  of  experience  of  the  small- 
est possible  dimensions,  and  all  upon  one  side." 

He  nodded.    "  Ei!  I  know  it." 

"  And  after  considering  the  state  of  the  human  race — that 
is  to  say,  the  half-dozen  people  I  knew — and  the  miseries  of 
the  human  lot  as  set  forth  in  the  books  I  had  read,  and  having 
proved  to  myself — all  up  in  that  little  room,  you  know  "  (I 
pointed  to  my  bedroom) — "  that  there  neither  was  nor  could 
be  Heaven  or  Hell,  or  any  future  state;  and  having  decided, 
also  from  that  room,  that  there  was  no  place  for  me  in  the 
world,  and  that  I  was  very  likely  actually  filling  the  place 
of  some  other  man,  poorer  than  I  was,  and  able  to  think  life 
a  good  thing  "  (Eugen  was  smiling  to  himself  in  great  amuse- 
ment), "  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  leave  the  world." 

"  Were  you  going  to  starve  yourself  to  death?  That  is 
rather  a  tedious  process,  niclit  tvaJir?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  I  had  not  decided  upon  any  means  of  effacing 
myself;  and  it  was  really  your  arrival  which  brought  on  that 
fainting  fit,  for  if  you  hadn't  turned  up  when  you  did  I 
should  probably  have  thought  of  my  interior  some  time  before 
seven  o'clock.  But  you  came.  Eugen,  I  wonder  what  sent 
you  up  to  my  room  Just  at  that  very  time,  on  that  very  day!  " 

"  Von  Francius,"  said  Eugen  tranquilly.  "  I  had  seen  him, 
and  he  was  very  busy,  and  referred  me  to  you — that's  all." 

"  Well — let  us  call  it  Von  Francius." 

•■''But  what's  the  end  of  it?    Is  that  the  whole  story?" 

"  I  thought  I  might  as  well  help  you  a  bit,"  said  I  rather 
awkwardly.  "  You  were  not  like  other  people,  you  see — it 
was  the  child,  I  think.  I  was  as  much  amazed  as  Karl,  if  I 
didn't  show  it  so  much,  and  after  that " 

"After  that?" 

"Well — there  was  the  child,  you  see,  and  things  seemed 
quite  different  somehow.  I've  been  very  comfortable  "  (this 
was  my  way  of  putting  it)  "  ever  since,  and  I  am  curious  to 
see  what  the  boy  will  be  like  in  a  few  years.  Shall  you  make 
him  into  a  musician,  too?  " 

Courvoisier's  brow  clouded  a  little. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  all  he  said.  Later  I  learned  the  jvi"*- 
«on  of  that  "don't  know." 


182  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

*'  So  it  was  no  love  affair,'*  said  Eugen  again.  "  Then  I 
have  been  wrong  all  the  time.  I  quite  fancied  it  was  some 
girl " 

"  What  could  make  you  think  so  ?  "  I  asked  with  a  whole- 
hearted laugh.  "  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  in 
love.  The  other  fellows  are  always  in  love.  They  are  in  a 
constant  state  of  schiudrmerei  about  some  girl  or  other.  It 
goes  in  epidemics.  They  have  not  each  a  separate  passion. 
The  whole  lot  of  them  will  go  mad  about  one  young  woman. 
I  can't  understand  it.  I  wish  I  could,  for  they  seem  to  enjoy 
it  so  much." 

"  You  heathen!  "  said  he,  but  not  in  a  very  bantering  tone. 

"  Why,  Eugen,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  so  very 
susceptible?  Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  added  hastily, 
shocked  and  confused  to  find  that  I  had  been  so  nearly  over- 
stepping the  boundary  which  I  had  always  marked  out  for 
myself.    And  I  stopped  abruptly. 

"  That's  Hke  you,  Friedhelm,"  said  he  in  a  tone  which 
was  in  some  way  dif[erent  from  his  usual  one.  "  I  never  knew 
such  a  ridiculous,  chivalrous,  punctilious  fellow  as  you  are. 
Tell  me  something — did  you  never  speculate  about  me?" 

"  Never  impertinently,  I  assure  you,  Eugen,"  said  I 
earnestly. 

He  laughed. 

"You  impertinent!  That  is  amusing,  I  must  say.  But 
surely  you  have  given  me  a  thought  now  and  then,  have  won- 
dered whether  I  had  a  history,  or  sprung  out  of  nothing?  " 

"  Certainly,  and  wondered  what  your  story  was;  but  I  do 
not  need  to  know  it  to " 

"  I  understand.  Well,  but  it  is  rather  difficult  to  say  this 
to  such  an  unsympathetic  person;  you  won't  understand  it. 
I  have  been  in  love,  Friedel." 

"  So  I  can  suppose." 

I  waited  for  the  corollary — "  And  been  loved  in  return  " — 
but  it  did  not  come.  He  said,  "  And  received  as  much  regard 
in  return  as  I  deserved — perhaps  more." 

As  I  could  not  cordially  assent  to  this  proposition,  I  re- 
mained silent. 

After  a  pause,  he  went  on:  "I  am  eight-and-twenty,  and 
have  lived  my  life.  The  story  won't  bear  raking  up  now — 
perhaps  never.  For  a  long  time  I  went  on  my  own  way,  and 
was  satisfied  with  it — blindly,  inanely,  densely  satisfied  with 
it;    then,   all   at   once,  I  was  brought  to  reason "    He 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  133 

laughed,  not  a  verj'  pleasant  laugh.  "  Brought  to  reason,"  he 
resumed,  "  but  how?  By  waking  one  morning  to  find  myself 
a  spoiled  man,  and  spoiled  by  myself,  too." 

A  pause,  while  I  turned  this  information  over  in  my  mind, 
and  then  said  composedly: 

"I  don't  quite  believe  in  your  being  a  spoiled  man. 
Granted  that  you  have  made  some  fasco — even  a  very  bad 
one — what  is  to  prevent  your  making  a  life  again?  " 

"  Pla,  ha!  "  said  he  ungenially.  ''Things  not  dreamed  of, 
Friedel,  by  your  straightforward  philosophy.  One  night  I 
was,  take  it  all  in  all,  straight  with  the  world  and  my  destiny; 
the  next  night  I  was  an  outcast,  and  justly  so.  I  don't  com- 
plain.   I  have  no  right  to  complain." 

Again  he  laughed. 

"  I  once  knew  someone,"  said  I,  "  who  used  to  say  that 
many  a  good  man  and  many  a  great  man  was  lost  to  the  world 
simply  because  nothing  interrupted  the  course  of  liis 
prosperity." 

"  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  an  embryo  hero  of  any  descrip- 
tion," said  he  bitterly.  "  I  am  merely,  as  I  said,  a  spoiled 
man  brought  to  his  senses,  and  with  hfe  before  him  to  go 
through  as  best  he  may,  and  the  knowledge  that  his  own. 
fault  has  brought  him  to  what  he  is." 

"  But  look  here!  If  it  is  merely  a  question  of  name  or 
money,"  I  began. 

"  It  is  not  merely  that;  but  suppose  it  were,  what  then?  " 

"  It  lies  with  yourself.  You  may  make  a  name  either  as  a 
composer  or  performer — your  head  or  your  fingers  will  secure 
you  money  and  fame." 

"  None  the  less  should  I  be,  as  I  said,  a  spoiled  man,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  come  forward.  It  was 
I  myself  who  sent  myself  and  my  prospects  caput;*  and  for 
that  sort  obscurity  is  the  best  taste  and  the  right  sphere." 

"  But  there's  the  boy,"  I  suggested.  "  Let  him  have  the 
advantage." 

"  Don't,  don't! "  he  said  suddenly,  and  wincing  visibly,  a? 
if  I  had  touched  a  raw  spot.  *'  No;  my  one  hope  for  him  is 
that  he  may  never  be  known  as  my  son." 

"  But— but " 

"  Poor  little  beggar!    I  wonder  what  will  become  of  him," 

*  Caput — a  German  slani^  expression  with  the  j^eneral  significance  of 
the  English  "  ijone  to  smash,"  but  also  a  hundred  other  and  wider  mean- 
ings, impoBBiblc  to  render  in  brief. 


134  THE  FIRST  YIOLm. 

he  uttered  after  a  pause,  during  which  I  did  not  speak 
again. 

Eugen  puffed  fitfully  at  his  cigar,  and,  at  last  knocking  the 
ash  from  it,  and  avoiding  my  eyes,  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  suppose  some  time  I  must  leave  the  boy." 

"Leave  him!  "  I  echoed. 

"  When  he  grows  a  little  older — ^before  he  is  old  enough  to 
feel  it  very  much,  though,  I  must  part  from  him.  It  will  be 
better." 

Another  pause.  No  sign  of  emotion,  no  quiver  of  the  lips, 
no  groan,  though  the  heart  might  be  afaint.    I  sat  speechless. 

"  I  have  not  come  to  the  conclusion  lately.  I've  always 
known  it,"  he  went  on,  and  spoke  slowly.  "  I  have  known 
it — and  have  thought  about  it — so  as  to  get  accustomed  to  it 
—see?" 

I  nodded. 

"  At  that  time — as  you  seem  to  have  a  fancy  for  the  child 
— will  you  give  an  eye  to  him — sometimes,  Friedel — that  is, 
if  you  care  enough  for  me " 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  speak.    Then  I  said: 

"  You  are  quite  sure  the  parting  must  take  place?  *' 

He  assented. 

"When  it  does,  will  you  give  him  to  me — to  my  charge 
altogether?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  If  he  must  lose  one  father,  let  me  grow  as  hke  another 
to  him  as  I  can." 

"  Friedhelm " 

"  On  no  other  condition,"  said  I.  "  I  will  not  '  have  an 
eye'  to  him  occasionally.  I  will  not  let  him  go  out  alone 
among  strangers,  and  give  a  look  in  upon  him  now  and 
then." 

Eugen  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  spoke  not. 

"  I  will  have  him  with  me  altogether,  or  not  at  all,"  I  fin- 
ished, with  a  kind  of  jerk. 

"Impossible!"  said  he,  looking  up  with  a  pale  face,  and 
eyes  full  of  anguish — the  more  intense  in  that  he  uttered  not 
a  word  of  it.  "  Impossible!  You  are  no  relation — he  has  not 
a  claim — there  is  not  a  reason — not  the  wildest  reason  for 
BUch  a " 

"  Yes,  there  is;  there  is  the  reason  that  I  won't  have  it 
otherwise,"  said  I  doggedly. 

'*It  is  fantastic,  like  your  insane  self,"  he  said  with  a 


TEE  FIRST  VlOLm.  135 

forced  smile,  which  cut  me,  somehow,  more  than  if  he  had 
groaned. 

"Fantastic I  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  What  good 
would  it  be  to  me  to  see  him  with  strangers.  I  should  only 
make  myself  miserable  with  wishing  to  have  him.  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  by  fantastic." 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "  So  be  it,  then,"  said  he  at  last. 
"  And  he  need  know  nothing  about  his  father.  1  may  even 
see  him  from  time  to  time  without  his  knowing — see  him 
growing  into  a  man  like  you,  Friedel;  it  would  be  worth  the 
separation,  even  if  one  had  not  to  make  a  merit  of  necessity; 
yes,  well  worth  it." 

"  Like  me?  Nie,  mein  lieher;  he  shall  be  something  rather 
better  than  I  am,  let  us  hope,"  said  I;  "  but  there  is  time 
enough  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Oh,  yes!  In  a  year  or  two  from  now,"  said  he,  almost 
inaudibly.  "  The  worst  of  it  is  that  in  a  case  hke  this  the 
years  go  so  fast — so  cursedly  fast." 

I  could  make  no  answer  to  this,  and  he  added:  "  Give  me 
thy  hand  upon  it,  Friedel." 

I  held  out  my  hand.  We  had  risen,  and  stood  looking 
steadfastly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I  wish  I  were — what  I  might  have  been — to  pay  you  for 
this,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  wringing  my  hand  and  laying  his 
left  for  a  moment  on  my  shoulder;  then,  without  another 
word,  went  into  his  room,  shutting  the  door  after  him. 

I  remained  still — sadder,  gladder  than  I  had  ever  been 
before.  Never  had  I  so  intensely  felt  the  deep,  eternal  sor- 
row of  life — that  sorrow  which  can  be  avoided  by  none  who 
rightly  hve;  yet  never  had  life  towered  before  me  so  rich  and 
so  well  worth  living  out,  so  capable  of  high  exultation,  pure 
purpose,  full  satisfaction,  and  sufficient  reward.  My  quarrel 
with  existence  was  made  ug. 


1S«  TEE  FIEST  VIOLIN, 


CHAPTER  m. 

"  The  merely  great  are,  all  in  all, 
No  more  than  what  the  merely  small 
Eeteera  them.    Man's  opinion 
Neither  conferred  nor  can  remove 
This  man's  dominion." 

Three  years  passed — an  even  way.  In  three  years  tliere 
happened  little  of  importance — little,  that  is,  of  open  impor- 
tance— to  either  of  us.  I  read  that  sentence  again,  and  can- 
not help  smiling — "  to  either  of  us."  It  shows  the  progress 
that  our  friendship  has  made.    Yes,  it  had  grown  every  day. 

I  had  no  past,  painful  or  otherwise,  which  I  could  even 
wish  to  conceal;  I  had  no  thought  that  I  desired  hidden 
from  the  man  who  had  become  my  other  self.  What  there 
was  of  good  in  me,  what  of  evil,  he  saw.  It  was  laid  open 
to  him,  and  he  appeared  to  consider  that  the  good  predomi- 
nated over  the  bad;  for,  from  that  first  day  of  meeting,  our 
intimacy  went  on  steadily  in  one  direction — increasing,  deep- 
ening. He  was  six  years  older  than  I  was.  At  the  end  of  this 
time  of  which  I  speak  he  was  one-and-thirty,  I  five-and- 
twenty;  but  we  met  on  equal  ground — not  that  I  had  any- 
thing approaching  his  capacities  in  any  way.  I  do  not  tliink 
that  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Our  happiness  did  not  de- 
pend on  mental  supremacy.  I  loved  him — because  I  could 
not  help  it;  he  me,  because — upon  my  word,  I  can  think  of 
no  good  reason — probably  because  he  did. 

And  yet  we  were  as  unlike  as  possible.  He  had  habits  of 
reckless  extravagance,  or  what  seemed  to  me  reckless  extrav- 
agance, and  a  lordly  manner  (when  he  forgot  himself)  of 
speaking  of  things,  which  absolutely  appalled  my  economical 
burgher  soul.  I  had  certain  habits,  too,  the  outcomes  of  my 
training,  and  my  sparing,  middle-class  way  of  living,  which 
I  saw  puzzled  him  very  much.  To  cite  only  one  insignificant 
incident.  We  were  both  great  readers,  and,  despite  our  some- 
times arduous  work,  contrived  to  get  through  a  good  amount 
of  books  in  the  year.  One  evening  he  came  home  with  a 
brand-new  novel,  in  three  volumes,  in  his  hands. 

"  Here,  Friedel;  here  is  some  mental  dissipation  for  to- 
night. Drop  that  Schopenhauer,  and  study  Heyse.  Here 
is  '  Die  Kinder  der  Welt ';  it  will  suit  our  case  exactly,  for 
it  is  what  we  are  ourselves." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  137 

"How  clean  it  looks!"  I  observed  innocently. 

"  So  it  ought,  seeing  that  I  have  Just  paid  for  it." 

«  Paid  for  it!  "  I  almost  shouted.  "  Paid  for  it!  You  don't 
mean  that  you  have  bought  the  book!  " 

"  Calm  thy  troubled  spirit!  You  don't  surely  mean  that 
you  thought  me  capable  of  stealing  the  book?  " 

"  You  are  hopeless.  You  have  paid  at  least  eighteen  majks 
for  it."   ' 

"  That  is  the  figure,  to  a  pfennig." 

"Well,"  said  I,  with  conscious  superiority,  "you  might 
have  had  the  whole  three  volumes  from  the  library  for  five  or 
six  groschen." 

"  I  know.  But  their  copy  looked  so  disgustingly  greasy  I 
couldn't  have  touched  it;  so  I  ordered  a  new  one." 

"  Very  well.  Your  accounts  will  look  well  when  you  come 
to  balance  and  take  stock,"  I  retorted. 

"  What  a  fuss  about  a  miserable  eighteen  marks!  "  said  he, 
stretching  himself  out,  and  opening  a  volume.  "  Come,  Sig, 
learn  how  the  children  of  the  world  are  wiser  in  their  genera- 
tion than  the  children  of  light,  and  leave  that  low  person  to 
prematurely  age  himself  by  beginning  to  balance  his  ac- 
counts before  they  are  ripe  for  it." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  you  are  talk- 
ing the  wildest  and  most  utter  rubbish  that  was  ever  con- 
ceived," said  I,  nettled.  "There  is  simply  no  sense  in  it. 
Given  an  income  of " 

"  Aber,  ich  hitte  Dich!"  he  implored,  though  laughing; 
and  I  was  silent. 

But  his  three  volumes  of  "  Die  Kinder  der  Welt "  furnished 
me  with  many  an  opportunity  to  "  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a 
tale,"  and  I  believe  reaJly  warned  him  off  on  one  or  two  other 
similar  extravagances.  The  idea  of  men  in  our  position  reck- 
lessly ordering  three-volume  novels  because  the  circulating 
library  copy  happened  to  be  greasy,  was  one  I  could  not  get 
over  for  a  long  time. 

We  still  inhabited  the  same  rooms  at  ISTo.  45,  in  the 
Wehrhahn,  We  had  outstayed  many  other  tenants;  men  had 
come  and  gone,  both  from  our  house  and  from  those  rooms 
over  the  way  whose  windows  faced  ours.  We  passed  our  time 
in  much  the  same  way — hard  work  at  our  profession,  and, 
with  Eugen,  at  least,  hard  work  out  of  it;  the  education  of 
his  boy,  whom  he  made  his  constant  companion  in  every 
leisure  moment,  and  taught  with  a  wisdom  I  could  hardly 


188  THE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

believe — it  seemed  so  like  inspiration — composition,  transla- 
tion, or  writing  of  his  own — incessant  employment  of  some 
kind.  He  never  seemed  able  to  pass  an  idle  moment;  and  yet 
there  were  times  when,  it  seemed  to  me,  his  work  did  not  sat- 
isfy him,  but  rather  seemed  to  disgust  him. 

Once  when  I  asked  him  if  it  were  so,  he  laid  down  his  pen 
and  said,  "  Yes." 

"  Then  why  do  you  do  it?  " 

"  Because — for  no  reason  that  I  know;  but  because  I  am 
an  unreasonable  fool." 

"An  unreasonable  fool  to  work  hard?" 

"No;  but  to  go  on  as  if  hard  work  now  can  ever  undo 
what  years  of  idleness  have  done." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  work?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  very  highest  and  holiest  thing  there  is, 
and  the  gi'andest  purifier  and  cleanser  in  the  world.  But  it 
is  not  a  panacea  against  every  ill.  I  believe  that  idleness  is 
sometimes  as  strong  as  work,  and  stronger.  You  may  do  that 
in  a  few  years  of  idleness  which  a  lifetime  of  aftei'work  won't 
cover,  mend,  or  improve.  You  may  make  holes  in  your  coat 
from  sheer  laziness,  and  then  find  that  no  amount  of  stitching 
will  patch  them  up  again." 

I  seldom  answered  these  mystic  monologues.  Love  gives 
a  wonderful  sharpness  even  to  dull  wits;  it  had  sharpened 
mine  so  that  I  often  felt  he  indulged  in  those  speeches  out  of 
sheer  desire  to  work  off  some  grief  or  bitterness  from  his  heart, 
but  that  a  question  might,  however  innocent,  overshoot  the 
mark  and  touch  a  sore  spot — the  thing  I  most  dreaded.  And 
I  did  not  feel  it  essential  to  my  regard  for  him  to  know  every 
item  of  his  past. 

In  such  cases,  however,  when  there  is  something  behind — 
when  one  knows  it,  only  does  not  know  what  it  is  (and  Eugen 
had  never  tried  to  conceal  from  me  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  him  which  he  did  not  care  to  tell) — then,  even 
though  one  accept  the  fact,  as  I  accepted  it,  without  dispute 
or  resentment,  one  yet  involuntarily  builds  theories,  has  ideas, 
or  rather  the  ideas  shape  themselves  about  the  object  of  in- 
terest, and  take  their  coloring  from  him,  one  cannot  refrain 
from  conjectures,  surmises.  Mine  were  necessarily  of  the 
most  vague  and  shadowy  description;  more  negative  than 
active;  less  theories  as  to  what  he  had  been  or  done  than 
inferences,  from  what  he  had  let  fall  in  talk  or  conduct,  as  to 
what  he  had  not  been  or  done. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  139 

In  our  three  years'  acquaintance,  it  is  true,  there  had  not 
been  much  opportunity  for  any  striking  display,  on  his  part, 
of  good  or  had  qualities;  hut  certainly  ample  opportunity  of 
testing  whether  he  were,  taken  all  in  all,  superior,  even  with, 
or  inferior  to  the  average  man  of  our  average  acquaintance. 
And,  briefly  speaking,  to  me  he  had  become  a  standing  model 
of  a  superior  man. 

I  had  by  this  time  learned  to  know  that  when  there  were 
many  ways  of  looking  at  a  question,  that  one,  if  there  were 
Buch  an  one,  which  was  less  earthily  practical,  more  ideal  and 
less  common  than  the  others,  would  most  inevitably  be  the 
view  taken  by  Eugen  Courvoisier,  and  advocated  by  him  with 
warmth,  energy,  and  eloquence  to  the  very  last.  The  point 
from  which  he  surveyed  the  things  and  the  doings  of  life  was, 
taken  all  in  all,  a  higher  one  than  that  of  other  men,  and  was 
illumined  with  something  of  the  purple  splendor  of  that 
*'  light  that  was  never  on  sea  or  land."  A  less  practical  con- 
duct, a  more  ideal  view  of  right  and  wrong — sometimes  a  little 
fantastic  even — always  imbued  with  something  of  the  knight- 
liness  which  sat  upon  him  as  a  natural  attribute.  Ritterlich, 
Karl  Linders  called  him,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest;  and 
ritterlich  he  was. 

In  his  outward  demeanor  to  the  world  with  which  he  camp 
in  contact,  he  was  courteous  to  men;  to  a  friend  or  intimate, 
as  myself,  an  ever-new  delight  and  joy;  to  all  people,  truthful 
to  fantasy;  and  to  women,  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  I 
ever  saw  him  in  their  company,  he  was  polite  and  deferential 
— but  rather  overwhelmingly  so;  it  was  a  politeness  which 
raised  a  barrier,  and  there  was  a  glacial  surface  to  the 
manner.  I  remarked  this  and  speculated  about  it.  He 
seemed  to  have  one  manner  to  every  woman  with  whom  he 
had  anytliing  to  do:  the  maidservant  who,  at  her  leisure  or 
pleasure,  was  supposed  to  answer  our  behests  (though  he 
would  often  do  a  thing  himself,  alleging  that  he  preferred 
doing  so  to  "  seeing  that  poor  creature's  apron  "),  old  Frau 
Henschel  who  sold  the  programmes  at  the  kasse  at  the  con- 
certs, to  the  young  ladies  who  presided  behind  a  counter,  to 
every  woman  to  whom  he  spoke  a  chance  word,  up  to  Frau 
Sybel,  the  wife  of  the  great  painter,  who  came  to  negotiate 
about  lessons  for  the  lovely  Fraulein,  her  daughter,  who 
wished  to  play  a  different  instrument  from  that  affected  by 
everyone  else.  The  same  inimitable  courtesy,  the  same  un- 
ruffled, quiet  indifference,  and  the  same  utter  unconscious- 


140  THE  FIRST  YIOLIN, 

ness  that  lie,  or  his  appearance,  or  behavior,  or  anything 
about  him,  could  possibly  interest  them.  And  yet  he  was  a 
man  eminently  calculated  to  attract  women,  only  he  never  to 
this  day  has  been  got  to  believe  so,  and  will  often  deprecate 
his  power  of  entertaining  ladies. 

I  often  watched  this  little  byplay  of  behavior  from  and  to 
the  fairer  sex  with  silent  amusement,  more  particularly  when 
Eugen  and  I  made  shopping  expeditions  for  Sigmund's  bene- 
fit. We  once  went  to  buy  stockings — winter  stockings — for 
him;  it  was  a  large  miscellaneous  and  small- ware  shop,  full 
of  young  women  behind  the  counters  and  ladies  of  all  ages 
before  them. 

We  found  ourselves  in  the  awful  position  of  being  the  only 
male  creatures  in  the  place.  Happy  in  my  insignificance 
and  plainness,  I  survived  the  glances  that  were  thrown  upon 
us;  I  did  not  wonder  that  they  fell  upon  my  companions. 
Eugen  consulted  a  little  piece  of  paper  on  which  Frau 
Schmidt  had  written  down  what  we  were  to  ask,  and,  march- 
ing straight  up  to  a  disengaged  shop  woman,  requested  to 
be  shown  some  colored  woolen  stocldngs. 

*'For  yourself,  mdn  Herrf"  she  inquired  with  a  fasci- 
nating smile. 

"  No,  thank  you;  for  my  little  boy,"  says  Eugen  politely, 
glancing  deferentially  round  at  the  piles  of  wool  and  packets 
of  hosen  around. 

"Ah,  so!  For  the  young  gentleman?  Bitte,  meine 
Herren,  be  seated."  And  she  gracefully  pushes  chairs  for  us; 
on  one  of  which  I,  unable  to  resist  so  much  affabihty,  sit 
down. 

Eugen  remains  standing;  and  Sigmund,  desirous  of  hav- 
ing a  voice  in  the  matter,  mounts  upon  his  stool,  kneels  upon 
it,  and  leans  his  elbows  on  the  counter. 

The  affable  young  woman  returns,  and  with  a  glance  at 
Eugen  that  speaks  of  worlds  beyond  colored  stockings,  pro- 
ceeds to  untie  a  packet  and  display  her  wares.  He  turns 
them  over.  Clearly  he  does  not  hke  them,  and  does  not 
understand  them.  They  are  striped;  some  are  striped  lati- 
tudinally,  others  longitudinally.  Eugen  turns  them  over,  and 
the  young  woman  murmurs  that  they  are  of  the  best  quality. 

"  Are  they?  "  says  he,  and  his  eyes  roam  all  round  the  shop. 
"Well,  Sigmund,  wilt  thou  have  legs  like  a  stork,  as  these 
long  stripes  will  inevitably  make  them,  or  wilt  thou  have 
legs  like  a  zebra's  back?  " 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  141 

*'I  should  like  legs  like  a  little  boy,  please/*  is  Signnmd's 
modest  expression  of  a  reasonable  desire. 

Eugen  surveys  them. 

"  Yon  der  besten  qualitdt,"  repeats  the  young  -woman 
impressively. 

"Have  you  no  blue  ones?"  demands  Eugen.  "All  blue, 
you  know.     He  wears  blue  clothes." 

"  Assuredly,  mein  Herr,  but  of  a  much  dearer  description; 
yeal  English,  magnificent." 

She  retires  to  find  them,  and  a  young  lady  who  has  been 
standing  near  us  turns  and  observes: 

"Excuse  me — you  want  stockings  for  your  little  boy?" 

We  both  assent.  It  is  a  joint  affair,  of  equal  importance 
to  both  of  us. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  those,"  says  she,  and  I  remark  her  face. 

I  have  seen  her  often  before — moreover,  I  have  seen  her 
look  very  earnestly  at  Eugen.  I  learned  later  that  her  name 
was  Anna  Sartorius.  Ere  she  could  finish,  the  shopwoman, 
with  wreathed  smiles  still  lingering  about  her  face,  returns 
and  produces  stockings — fine,  blue-ribbed  stocldngs,  such  as 
the  children  of  rich  English  parents  wear.  Their  fineness, 
and  the  smooth  quality  of  the  wool,  and  the  good  shape  appear 
to  soothe  Eugen's  feelings.  He  pushes  away  his  heap  of 
striped  ones,  which  look  still  coarser  and  commoner  now, 
observing  hopefully  and  cheerily: 

"/a  wohl!  That  is  more  what  I  mean."  (The  poor  dear 
fellow  had  meant  nothing,  but  he  knew  what  he  wanted 
when  he  saw  it.)  "  These  look  more  like  thy  legs,  Sigmund, 
nicM  wahr?    I'll  talce " 

I  dug  him  violently  in  the  ribs. 

"Hold  on,  Eugen!  How  much  do  they  cost  the  pair, 
Fraulein?" 

"  Two  thalers  twenty-five;  the  very  best  quality,"  she  says, 
with  a  ravishing  smile. 

"  There!  eight  shillings  a  pair!  "  say  I.     "  It  is  ridiculous." 

"Eight  shiUings! "  he  repeats  ruefully.  "That  is  too 
much." 

"  They  are  real  English,  mein  Herr,"  she  says  feelingly. 

"But,  um  Gotteswillen!  don't  we  make  any  like  them  in 
Germany." 

"Oh,  sir! "  she  says  reproachfully. 

"  Those  others  are  such  brutes,"  he  remarks,  evidently 
wavering. 


142  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  am  in  despair.  The  young  woman  is  annoyed  to  find 
tliat  he  does  not  even  see  the  amiable  looks  she  has  bestowed 
upon  him,  so  she  sweeps  back  the  heap  of  striped  stockings 
and  announces  that  they  are  only  three  marks  the  pair — 
naturally  inferior,  but  you  cannot  have  the  best  article  for 
nothing. 

Fraulein  Sartorius,  about  to  go,  says  to  Eugen: 

"  Mein  Herr,  ask  for  such  and  such  an  article.  I  know 
they  keep  them,  and  you  will  find  it  what  you  want." 

Eugen,  much  touched  and  much  surprised  (as  he  always  is 
and  has  been)  that  anyone  should  take  an  interest  in  him, 
makes  a  bow  and  a  speech,  and  rushes  off  to  open  the  door 
for  Fraulein  Sartorius,  thanking  her  profusely  for  her  good- 
ness. The  young  lady  behind  the  counter  smiles  bitterly, 
and  now  looks  as  if  butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth.  I, 
assuming  the  practical,  mention  the  class  of  goods  referred 
to  by  Fraulein  Sartorius,  which  she  unwillingly  brings  forth, 
and  we  straightway  purchase.  The  errand  accomplished, 
Eugen  takes  Sigmund  by  the  hand,  makes  a  grand  bow  to  the 
young  woman,  and  instructs  his  son  to  take  off  his  hat,  and, 
this  process  being  complete,  we  sally  forth  again,  and  half- 
way home  Eugen  remarks  that  it  was  very  kind  of  that  young 
lady  to  help  us. 

"  Very,"  I  assent  dryly,  and  when  Sigmund  has  contrib- 
uted the  artless  remark  that  all  the  ladies  laughed  at  us  and 
looked  at  us,  and  has  been  told  by  his  father  not  to  be  so  self- 
conceited,  for  that  no  one  can  possibly  wish  to  look  at  us,  we 
arrive  at  home,  and  the  stockings  are  tried  on. 

Constantly  I  saw  this  willingness  to  charm  on  the  part  of 
women;  constantly  the  same  utter  ignorance  of  any  such 
thought  on  the  part  of  Eugen,  who  was  continually  express- 
ing his  surprise  at  the  kindness  of  people,  and  adding  with 
the  gravest  simplicity  that  he  had  always  found  it  so,  at  which 
announcement  Karl  laughed  till  he  had  to  hold  his  sides. 

And  Sigmund?  Since  the  day  when  Courvoisier  had  said 
to  me,  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  the  words  about  parting, 
he  had  mentioned  the  subject  twice — always  with  the  same 
intention  expressed.  Once  it  was  when  I  had  been  out  dur- 
ing the  evening,  and  he  had  not.  I  came  into  our  sitting 
room,  and  found  it  in  darkness.  A  light  came  from  the 
inner  room,  and,  going  toward  it,  I  found  that  he  had  placed 
the  lamp  upon  a  distant  stand,  and  was  sitting  by  the  child's 
crib,  his  arms  folded,  his  face  calm  and  sad.     He  rose  when 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN,  143 

he  saw  me,  brought  the  lamp  into  the  parlor  again,  and 
Bald: 

"  Pardon,  Friedel,  that  I  left  you  without  light.  The  time 
of  parting  will  come,  you  know,  and  I  was  taking  a  look  in 
anticipation  of  the  time  when  there  will  be  no  one  there  to 
look  at." 

I  bowed.  There  was  a  slight  smile  upon  his  lips,  but  I 
would  rather  have  heard  a  broken  voice  and  seen  a  mien  less 
serene. 

The  second,  and  only  other  time  up  to  now,  and  the  events 
I  am  coming  to,  was  once  when  he  had  been  giving  Sigmund 
a  music  lesson,  as  we  called  it — that  is  to  say,  Eugen  took  his 
violin  and  played  a  melody,  but  incorrectly,  and  Sigmund 
told  him  every  time  a  wrong  note  was  played,  or  false  time 
kept.  Eugen  sat,  giving  a  look  now  and  then  at  the  boy, 
whose  small,  delicate  face  was  bright  with  intelligence,  whose 
dark  eyes  blazed  with  life  and  fire,  and  whose  every  gesture 
betrayed  spirit,  grace,  and  quick  understanding.  A  child  for 
a  father  to  be  proud  of.  No  meanness  there;  no  httleness 
in  the  fine,  high-bred  features;  everything  that  the  father's 
heart  could  wish,  except,  perhaps,  some  httle  want  of  robust- 
ness; one  might  have  desired  that  the  limbs  were  less  ex- 
quisitely graceful  and  dehcate — more  stout  and  robust. 

As  Eugen  laid  aside  his  violin,  he  drew  the  child  toward 
him,  and  asked  (what  I  had  never  heard  him  ask  before) : 

"  What  wilt  thou  be,  Sigmund,  when  thou  art  a  man?  " 

"  J  a,  lieber  Vater,  I  will  be  just  like  thee." 

"  How  just  like  me?  " 

"  I  will  do  what  thou  dost." 

"  So!     Thou  wilt  be  a  musiker  like  me  and  Friedel?  " 

"  Ja  wolil!"  said  Sigmund;  but  something  else  seemed  to 
weigh  upon  his  small  mind.  He  eyed  his  father  with  a  re- 
flective look,  then  looked  down  at  his  own  small  hands  and 
slender  limbs  (his  legs  were  cased  in  the  new  stockings). 

"  How?  "  inquired  his  father. 

*'  I  should  like  to  be  a  musician,"  said  Sigmund,  who  had 
a  fine  confidence  in  his  sire,  and  confided  his  every  thought 
to  him. 

*'  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it,"  he  went  on,  resting  his 
elbows  upon  Eugen's  knee,  and  propping  his  chin  upon  his 
two  small  fists,  he  looked  up  into  his  father's  face. 

"  Friedhelm  is  a  musician,  but  he  is  not  hke  thee,"  he 
pursued,     Eugen  reddened;  I  laughed. 


144  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"True  as  can  be,  Sigmund,"  said  I. 

"  *  I  would  I  were  as  honest  a  man/ ''  said  Eugen,  slightly 
altering  "  Hamlet ";  but  as  he  spoke  English  I  contented 
myself  with  shaking  my  head  at  him. 

"  I  like  Friedel,"  went  on  Sigmund.  "  I  love  him;  he  is 
good.     But  thou,  mein  Vater " 

"  Well?  "  asked  Eugen  again. 

'■''I  will  be  like  thee/'  said  the  boy  vehemently,  his  eyes 
filling  with  tears.  "  I  will.  Thou  saidst  that  men  who  try 
can  do  all  they  will — and  I  will,  I  will." 

"  Why,  my  child?  " 

It  was  a  long,  earnest  look  that  the  child  gave  the  man. 
Eugen  had  said  to  me  some  few  days  before,  and  I  had  fully 
agreed  with  him: 

"  That  child's  life  is  one  strife  after  the  beautiful  in  art, 
and  nature,  and  life — how  will  he  succeed  in  the  searcji?" 

I  thought  of  this — it  flashed  subtly  through  my  mind  as 
Sigmund  gazed  at  his  father  with  a  childish  adoration — then, 
suddenly  springing  round  liis  neck,  said  passionately: 

"  Thou  art  so  beautiful — so  beautiful!  I  must  be  like  thee." 

Eugen  bit  his  lip  momentarily,  saying  to  me  in  English: 

*'  I  am  his  God,  you  see,  Friedel.  What  will  he  do  when 
lie  finds  out  what  a  common  clay  figure  it  was  he  worsliiped?  " 

But  he  had  not  the  heart  to  banter  the  child;  only  held 
the  little  clinging  figure  to  his  breast;  the  breast  which  Sig- 
mund recognized  as  his  heaven. 

It  was  after  this  that  Eugen  said  to  me  when  we  were  alone: 

"It  must  come  before  he  thinks  less  of  me  than  he  does 
now,  Friedel." 

To  these  speeches  I  could  never  make  any  answer,  and  he 
always  had  the  same  singular  smile — the  same  paleness  about 
the  lips  and  unnatural  light  in  the  eyes  when  he  spoke  so. 

He  had  accomplished  one  great  feat  in  those  three  years — 
he  had  won  over  to  himself  his  comrades,  and  that  without, 
so  to  speak,  actively  laying  himself  out  to  do  so.  He  had 
struck  us  all  as  something  so  very  different  from  the  rest  of 
us,  that,  on  his  arrival  and  for  some  time  afterward,  there 
lingered  some  idea  that  he  must  be  opposed  to  us.  But  I 
very  soon,  and  the  rest,  by  gradual  degrees,  got  to  recognize 
that  though  in,  not  of  us,  yet  he  was  no  natural  enemy  of 
ours;  if  he  made  no  advances,  he  never  avoided  or  repulsed 
any,  but,  on  the  very  contrary,  seemed  surprised  and  pleased 
that  anyone  should  take  an  interest  in  him.     We  soon  found 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  145 

that  he  was  extremely  modest  as  to  his  own  merits  and  eager 
to  acknowledge  those  of  other  people. 

"And,"  said  Karl  Linders  once,  twirling  his  mustache, 
and  smiling  in  the  consciousness  that  his  own  outward  pre- 
sentment was  not  to  be  called  repulsive,  "  he  can't  help  his 
looks;  no  fellow  can." 

At  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  his  popularity  was  much 
greater  than  he  knew,  or  would  have  believed  if  he  had  been 
told  of  it. 

Only  between  him  and  Von  Francius  there  remained  a 
constant  gulf  and  a  continual  coldness.  Von  Francius  never 
stepped  aside  to  make  friends;  Eugen  most  certainly  never 
went  out  of  his  way  to  ingratiate  himself  with  Von  Francius. 
Courvoisier  had  been  appointed  contrary  to  the  wish  of  Von 
Francius,  which,  perhaps,  caused  the  latter  to  regard  him 
a  little  coldly — even  more  coldly  than  was  usual  with  him, 
and  he  was  never  enthusiastic  about  anyone  or  anything, 
while  to  Eugen  there  was  absolutely  nothing  in  Von  Francius 
which  attracted  him,  save  the  magnificent  power  of  his  musical 
talent — a  power  which  was  as  calm  and  cold  as  himself. 

Max  von  Francius  was  a  man  about  whom  there  were  vari- 
ous opinions,  expressed  and  unexpressed;  he  was  a  person 
who  never  spoke  of  himself,  and  who  contrived  to  live  a  life 
more  isolated  and  apart  than  anyone  I  have  ever  known,  con- 
sidering that  he  went  much  in  society,  and  mixed  a  good  deal 
with  the  world.  In  every  circle  in  Elberthal  which  could  by 
any  means  be  called  select,  his  society  was  eagerly  sought, 
nor  did  he  refuse  it.  His  days  were  full  of  engagements; 
he  was  consulted,  and  his  opinion  deferred  to  in  a  singular 
manner — singular,  because  he  was  no  sayer  of  smooth  things, 
but  the  very  contrary;  because  he  hung  upon  no  patron,  sub- 
mitted to  no  dictation,  was  in  his  way  an  autocrat.  This 
state  of  things  he  had  brought  about  entirely  by  force  of  his 
own  will  and  in  utter  opposition  to  precedent,  for  the  former 
directors  had  been  notoriously  under  the  thumb  of  certain 
influential  outsiders,  who  were  in  reality  the  directors  of  the 
director.  It  was  the  universal  feeling  that  though  the  Herr 
Direktor  was  the  busiest  man,  and  had  the  largest  circle  of 
acquaintance  of  anyone  in  Elberthal,  yet  that  he  was  less 
really  known  than  many  another  man  of  half  his  importance. 
His  business  as  musik-direktor  took  up  much  of  his  time; 
the  rest  might  have  been  filled  to  overflowing  with  private 
lessons,  but  Von  Francius  was  not  a  man  to  make  himself 


146 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


cheap;  it  was  a  distinction  to  be  taught  by  him,  the  more  so 
as  the  position  or  circumstances  of  a  would-be  pupil  appeared 
to  make  not  the  very  smallest  impression  upon  him.  Dis- 
tinguished for  hard,  practical  common  sense,  a  ready  sneer 
at  anything  high-flown  or  romantic,  discouraging  not  so  much 
enthusiasm  as  the  outward  manifestation  of  it,  which  he 
called  melodrama.  Max  von  Francius  was  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes  in  Elberthal,  and  bore  the  scrutiny  with  glacial 
indifference. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

feiedhelm's  story. 

Joachim  Raff.     Op.  177. 


J.  (  '  ■■  I — ■■  ■<>  "     I       ..III.* 


:=f=J:^:_^zri:ft£E^=.=i!i::tEI=»3S3EEi 


*0' 


'^Z 


—^ — f- 


f 


tt; 


"  Make  yourself  quite  easy,  Herr  Concertmeister.    No  child 
that  was  left  to  my  charge  was  ever  known  to  come  to  hamL'' 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  147 

Thus  Frau  Schmidt  to  Eugen,  as  she  stood  with  dubious 
smile  and  folded  arms  in  our  parlor,  and  harangued  him, 
while  he  and  I  stood,  violin-cases  in  our  hands,  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  anxious  to  be  off. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Frau  Schmidt;  I  hope  he  will  not 
trouble  you." 

"He  is  a  well-behaved  child,  and  not  nearly  so  disagree- 
able and  bad  to  do  with  as  most.  And  at  what  time  will  you 
be  back?" 

"  That  is  uncertain.  It  just  depends  upon  the  length  of 
the  probe." 

"  Ha!  It  is  all  the  same.  I  am  going  out  for  a  little  ex- 
cursion this  afternoon,  to  the  Grafenberg,  and  I  shall  take 
the  boy  with  me." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Eugen;  "  that  will  be  very  kind. 
He  wants  some  fresh  air,  and  I've  had  no  time  to  take  liira 
out.     You  are  very  kind." 

"  Trust  to  me,  Herr  Concertmeister — trust  to  me,"  said 
she,  with  the  usual  imperial  wave  of  her  hand,  as  she  at  last 
moved  aside  from  the  doorway,  which  she  had  blocked  up, 
and  allowed  us  to  pass  out.  A  last  wave  of  the  hand  from 
Eugen  to  Sigmund,  and  then  we  hurried  away  to  the  station. 
We  were  bound  for  Cologne  where,  that  year,  the  Lowei 
Rhine  Musikfest  was  to  be  held.  It  was  then  somewhat  pasi 
the  middle  of  April,  and  the  fest  came  off  at  Whitsuntide,  in 
the  middle  of  May.  We,  among  others,  were  engaged  to 
strengthen  the  Cologne  orchestra  for  the  occasion,  and  we 
were  bidden  this  morning  to  the  first  probe. 

We  just  caught  our  train,  seeing  one  or  two  faces  of  com- 
rades we  knew,  and  in  an  hour  were  in  Koln. 

"  The  Tower  of  Babel,"  and  Raff's  Fifth  Symphonic,  that 
called  "  Lenore,"  were  the  subjects  we  had  been  summoned 
to  practice.  They,  together  with  Beethoven's  "  Choral 
Fantasia"  and  some  solos,  were  to  come  off  on  the  third 
evening  of  the  fest. 

The  probe  lasted  a  long  time;  it  was  three  o'clock  when  we 
left  the  concert  hall,  after  five  hours'  hard  work. 

"  Come  along,  Eugen,"  cried  I,  "  we  have  just  time  to 
catch  the  three-ten,  but  only  just." 

"  Don't  wait  for  me,"  he  answered  with  an  absent  look. 
"  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  by  it.  Look  after  yourself, 
Friedel,  and  auf  wiedersehen !  " 

I  was  scarcely  surprised,  for  I  had  seen  that  the  music 


148  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

had  deeply  moyed  him,  and  I  can  understand  the  wish  of  any 
man  to  be  alone  with  the  remembrance  or  continuance  of  such 
emotions.  Accordingly  I  took  my  way  to  the  station,  and 
there  met  one  or  two  of  my  Elberthal  comrades,  who  had  been 
on  the  same  errand  as  myself,  and,  like  me,  were  returning 
home. 

Lively  remarks  upon  the  probable  features  of  the  coming 
fest,  and  the  circulation  of  any  amount  of  loose  and  hazy 
gossip  respecting  composers  and  soloists  followed,  and  we 
all  went  to  our  usual  restauration  and  dined  together.  There 
was  an  opera  that  night  to  which  we  had  probe  that  after- 
noon, and  I  scarcely  had  time  to  rush  home  and  give  a  look 
at  Sigmund  before  it  was  time  to  go  again  to  the  theater. 

Eugen's  place  remained  empty.  For  the  first  time  since 
he  had  come  into  the  orchestra  he  was  absent  from  his  post, 
and  I  wondered  what  could  have  kept  him. 

Taking  my  way  home,  very  tired,  with  fragments  of  airs 
from  "  Czar  und  Zimmermann,"  in  which  I  had  just  been 
playing,  the  "  March "  from  "  Lenore,"  and  scraps  of 
choruses  and  airs  from  the  "  Thurm  zu  Babel,"  all  ringing 
in  my  head  in  a  confused  jumble,  I  sprang  up  the  stairs  (up 
which  I  used  to  plod  so  wearily  and  so  spiritlessly),  and  went 
into  the  sitting  room.  Darkness!  After  I  had  stood  still 
and  gazed  about  for  a  time,  my  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the 
obscurity.  I  perceived  that  a  dim  gray  light  still  stole  in  at 
the  open  window,  and  that  someone  reposing  in  an  easy-chair 
was  faintly  shadowed  against  it. 

"  Is  that  you,  Friedhelm?  "  asked  Eugen's  voice. 

"  Lieber  Hinimel!  Are  you  there?  What  are  you  doing  in 
the  dark?" 

"  Light  the  lamp,  my  Friedel!  Dreams  belong  to  darkness, 
and  facts  to  light.  Sometimes  I  wish  light  and  facts  had 
never  been  invented." 

I  found  the  lamp  and  lighted  it,  carried  it  up  to  him,  and 
stood  before  him,  contemplating  him  curiously.  He  lay 
back  in  our  one  easy-chair,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
his  legs  outstretched.  He  had  been  idle  for  the  first  time,  I 
think,  since  I  had  known  him.  He  had  been  sitting  in  the 
dark,  not  even  pretending  to  do  anything. 

"  There  are  things  new  under  the  sun,"  said  I  in  mingled 
amusement  and  amaze.  "  Absent  from  your  post,  to  the 
alarm  and  surprise  of  all  who  know  you,  here  I  find  you  moon- 
ing in  the  darkness,  and  when  I  illuminate  you,  you  smile 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  149 

up  at  me  in  a  somewhat  imbecile  manner,  and  say  nothing* 
What  may  it  portend?  " 

He  roused  himself,  sat  up,  and  looked  at  me  with  an 
amhio:iious  half  smile. 

"  Most  punctual  of  men!  most  worthy,  honest,  fidgety  old 
friend!  '*  said  he  with  still  the  same  suppressed  smile,  "  how 
I  honor  you!  How  I  wish  I  could  emulate  you!  How  I 
wish  I  were  like  you!  and  yet,  Friedel,  old  boy,  you  have 
missed  something  this  afternoon." 

"So!  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  have  been  doing. 
Give  an  account  of  yourself." 

"I  have  erred  and  gone  astray,  and  have  found  it  pleas- 
ant. I  have  done  that  which  I  ought  not  to  have  done,  and 
am  sorry,  for  the  sake  of  morality  and  propriety,  to  have  to 
say  that  it  was  delightful;  far  more  delightful  than  to  go  on 
doing  just  what  one  ought  to  do.  Say,  good  Mentor,  does 
it  matter?  For  this  occasion  only.  Never  again,  as  I  am  a 
living  man." 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  plainly,"  said  I,  first  putting  the 
lamp  and  then  myself  upon  the  table.  I  swung  my  legs 
about  and  looked  at  him. 

"  And  not  go  on  telling  you  stories  like  that  of  Mun- 
chausen, in  Arabesks,  eh?  I  will  be  explicit;  I  will  use  the 
indicative  mood,  present  tense.  Now  then!  I  like  Cologne; 
I  like  the  cathedral  of  that  town;  I  like  the  Hotel  du  Nord; 
and,  above  all,  I  love  the  railway  station." 

"  Are  you  raving?  " 

"Did  you  ever  examine  the  Cologne  railway  station?"  he 
went  on,  hghting  a  cigar.  "There  is  a  great  big  waiting 
room,  which  they  lock  up;  there  is  a  delightful  place  in  which 
you  may  get  lost,  and  find  yourself  suddenly  alone  in  a  de- 
serted wing  of  the  building,  with  an  impertinent  porter,  who 
doesn't  understand  one  word  of  Eng — of  your  native 
tongue " 

"  Are  you  mad?  "  was  my  varied  comment. 

"  And  while  you  are  in  the  greatest  distress,  separated  from 
your  friends,  who  have  gone  on  to  Elberthal  (like  mine),  and 
struggling  to  make  this  porter  understand  you,  you  may  be 
encountered  by  a  mooning  individual — a  native  of  the  land 
— and  you  may  address  him.  He  drives  the  fumes  of  music 
from  his  brain,  and  looks  at  you,  and  finds  you  charming — 
more  than  charming.  My  dear  Friedhelm,  the  look  in  your 
eyes  is  quite  painful  to  see.     By  the  exercise  of  a  little  diplo- 


150  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

macy,  which,  as  you  axe  charmingly  naive,  you  do  not  sea 
through,  he  manages  to  seal  an  alliance  by  which  you  and  he 
agree  to  pass  three  or  four  hours  in  each  other's  society,  for 
mutual  instruction  and  entertainment.  The  entertainment 
consists  of  cutlets,  potatoes — the  kind  called  kartoffeln 
frittes,  which  they  give  you  very  good  at  the  ISTord — and  the 
wine  known  to  us  as  Doctorberger.  The  instruction  is  varied, 
and  is  carried  on  chiefly  in  the  aisle  of  the  Kolner  Dom,  to 
the  sound  of  music.  And  when  he  is  quite  spellbound,  in  a 
magic  circle,  a  kind  of  golden  net  or  cloud,  he  pulls  out  an 
earthly  watch,  made  of  dust  and  dross  ('  More  fool  he,'  your 
eye  says, and  you  are  quite  right),  and  sees  that  time  is  advanc- 
ing. A  whole  army  of  homed  things  with  stings,  called 
feelings  of  propriety,  honor,  correctness,  the  right  thing,  etc., 
come  :n  thick  battalions  in  sturmschritt  upon  liim,  and  with 
a  hasty  word  he  hurries  her — he  gets  off  to  the  station. 
There  is  still  an  hour,  for  both  are  coming  to  Elberthal — an 
hour  of  unalloyed  delight;  then  " — he  snapped  his  fingers — 
"  a  dros]cy,  an  address,  a  crack  of  the  whip,  and  ade!  " 

I  sat  and  stared  at  him  while  he  wound  up  this  rhodomon- 
tade  by  singing: 

"Ade,  ade,  ade! 
Ja,  Scheiden  und  Meiden  thut  Wehl" 

".You  are  too  young  and  fair,"  he  presently  resumed,  "too 
slight  and  sober  for  apoplexy;  but  a  painful  fear  seizes  me 
that  your  mental  faculties  are  under  some  sUght  cloud. 
There  is  a  vacant  look  in  your  usually  radiant  eyes;  a  want 

of  intelligence  in  the  curve  of  your  rosy  lips " 

"  Eugen!  Stop  that  string  of  fantastic  rubbish!  Where 
have  you  been,  and  what  have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  I  have  not  deserved  that  from  you.  Haven't  I  been  tell- 
:ng  you  all  this  time  where  I  have  been  and  what  I  have  been 
doing?  There  is  a  brutality  in  your  behavior  which  is  to  a 
refined  mind  most  lamentable." 

"  But  where  have  you  been,  and  what  have  you  done? '' 
"  Another  time,  mein  lieber — another  time!  " 
"With  this  misty  promise  I  had  to  content  myself.  I  specu- 
lated upon  the  subject  for  that  evening,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  had  invented  the  whole  story,  to  see  whether 
I  would  believe  it  (for  we  had  all  a  reprehensible  habit  of  that 
kind),  and  ^.ery  soon  the  whole  circumstance  dropped  from 
my  memc  "y. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  151 

On  the  following  morning  I  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  pub- 
lie  eye  hospital.  Eugen  and  I  had  interested  ourselves  to 
procure  a  ticket  for  free,  or  almost  free  treatment  as  an  out- 
patient for  a  youth  whom  we  knew — one  of  the  second  violins 
— whose  sight  was  threatened,  and  who,  poor  boy,  could  not 
afford  to  pay  for  proper  treatment  Eugen  being  busy,  I 
went  to  receive  the  ticket. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  the  place.  I  was  shown 
into  a  room  with  the  light  somewhat  obscured,  and  there  had 
to  wait  some  few  minutes.  Everyone  had  something  the 
matter  with  his  or  her  eyes — at  least  so  I  thought,  until  my 
own  fell  upon  a  girl  who  leaned,  looking  a  little  tired  and  a 
little  disappointed,  against  a  tall  desk  at  one  side  of  the  room. 

She  struck  me  on  the  instant  as  no  feminine  appearance 
had  ever  struck  me  before.  She,  like  myself,  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  someone  or  something.  She  was  tall  and  supple 
in  figure,  and  her  face  was  girlish  and  very  innocent-looking; 
and  yet,  both  in  her  attitude  and  countenance  there  was  a 
little  pride,  some  hauteur.  It  was  evidently  natural  to  her, 
and  sat  well  upon  her.  A  slight  but  exquisitely  molded 
figure,  different  from  those  of  our  stalwart  Elberthaler 
Mddchen — finer,  more  refined  and  distinguished,  and  a  face 
to  dream  of.  I  thought  it  then,  and  I  say  it  now.  Masses, 
almost  too  thick  and  heavy,  of  dark  auburn  hair,  with  here 
and  there  a  glint  of  warmer  hue,  framed  that  beautiful  face — 
half  woman's,  half  child's.  Dark  gray  eyes,  with  long  dark 
lashes  and  brows;  cheeks  naturally  very  pale,  but  sensitive, 
like  some  delicate  alabaster,  showing  the  red  at  every  wave  of 
emotion;  something  racy,  piquant,  unique,  enveloped  the 
whole  appearance  of  this  young  girl.  I  had  never  seen  any- 
thing at  all  like  her  before. 

She  looked  wearily  round  the  room,  and  sighed  a  Httle. 
Then  her  eyes  met  mine;  and  seeing  the  earnestness  with 
which  I  looked  at  her,  she  turned  away,  and  a  slight^  very 
slight,  flush  appeared  in  her  cheek. 

I  had  time  to  notice  (for  everything  about  her  interested 
me)  that  her  dress  was  of  the  very  plainest  and  simplest 
kind,  so  plain  as  to  be  almost  poor,  and  in  its  fasliion  not  of 
the  newest,  even  in  Elberthal. 

Then  my  name  was  called  out.  I  received  my  ticket,  and 
went  to  the  probe  at  the  theater. 


162  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

CHAPTER  V. 
"  Wishes  are  pilgrims  to  the  vale  of  tears." 

A  WEEK — ten  days  passed.  I  did  not  see  the  beautiful 
girl  again — nor  did  I  forget  her.  One  night  at  the  opera  I 
found  her.  It  was  "  Lohengrin  " — but  she  has  told  all  that 
story  herself — how  Eugen  came  in  late  (he  had  a  trick  of 
never  coming  in  till  the  last  minute,  and  I  used  to  think  he 
had  some  reason  for  it) — and  the  recognition  and  the  cut 
direct,  first  on  her  side,  then  on  his. 

Eugen  and  I  walked  home  together,  arm  in  arm,  and  I  felt 
provoked  with  him. 

"  I  say,  P]ugen,  did  you  see  the  young  lady  with  Vincent 
and  the  others  in  the  first  row  of  the  parquet?  " 

"  I  saw  some  six  or  eight  ladies  of  various  ages  in  the  first 
row  of  the  parquet.  Some  were  old  and  some  were  young. 
One  had  a  knitted  shawl  over  her  head,  which  she  kept  on 
during  the  whole  of  the  performance." 

"  Don't  be  so  maddening!  I  said  the  young  lady  with 
Vincent  and  Eraulein  Sartorius.  By  the  bye,  Eugen,  do  you 
know,  or  have  you  ever  known  her?  " 

"Who?" 

"Eraulein  Sartorius." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  Oh,  bother!  The  young  lady  I  mean  sat  exactly  oppo- 
site to  you  and  me — a  beautiful  young  girl;  an  Engldnderin 
— fair,  with  that  hair  that  we  never  see  here,  and " 

"  In  a  brown  hat — sitting  next  to  Vincent.  I  saw  her — 
yes." 

"  She  saw  you,  too." 

"  She  must  have  been  blind  if  she  hadn't." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  before?  " 

"  I  have  seen  her  before — ^yes." 

"  And  spoken  to  her?  " 

"  Even  spoken  to  her." 

**  Do  tell  me  what  it  all  means.'* 

"  Nothing." 

"  But,  Eugen " 

"Are  you  so  struck  with  her,  Friedel?  Don't  lose  yonr 
heart  to  her,  I  warn  you." 

"Why?"  I  inquired  wilily,  hoping  the  answer  would  give 
me  some  clew  to  his  acquaintance  with  her. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLUr.  153 

"Because,  mein  Bester,  she  is  a  cut  above  you  and  me,  in 
a  different  sphere,  one  that  we  know  notliing  about.  What 
is  more,  she  knows  it,  and  shows  it.  Be  glad  that  you  can- 
not lay  yourself  open  to  the  snub  that  I  got  to-night." 

There  was  so  much  bitterness  in  his  tone  that  I  was  sur- 
prised. But  a  sudden  remembrance  flashed  into  my  mind 
of  his  strange  remarks  after  I  had  left  him  that  day  at  Co- 
logne, and  I  laughed  to  myself,  nor,  when  he  asked  me,  would 
T  tell  him  why.  That  evening  he  had  very  little  to  say  to  Karl 
Linders  and  myself. 

Eugen  never  spoke  to  me  of  the  beautiful  girl  who  had 
behaved  so  strangely  that  evening,  though  we  saw  her  again 
and  again. 

Sometimes  I  used  to  meet  her  in  the  street,  in  company 
with  the  dark,  plain  girl,  Anna  Sartorius,  who,  I  fancied, 
always  surveyed  Eugen  with  a  look  of  recognition.  The  two 
young  women  formed  in  appearance  an  almost  startling  con- 
trast. She  came  to  all  the  concerts,  as  if  she  made  music  a 
study — generally  she  was  with  a  stout,  good-natured-looking 
German  Fraulein,  and  the  young  Englishman,  Vincent. 
There  was  always  something  rather  melancholy  about  her 
grace  and  beauty. 

Most  beautiful  she  was,  with  long,  slender,  artist-like 
hands,  the  face  a  perfect  oval,  but  the  features  more  piquant 
than  regular;  sometimes  a  subdued  fire  glowed  in  her  eyes 
and  compressed  her  lips,  which  removed  her  altogether  from 
the  category  of  spiritless  beauties — a  genus  for  wliich  I  never 
had  the  least  taste. 

One  morning  Courvoisier  and  I,  standing  just  within  the 
entrance  to  the  theater  orchestra,  saw  two  people  go  by. 
One,  a  figure  well  enough  known  to  everyone  in  Elberthal, 
and  especially  to  us — that  of  Max  von  Francius.  Did  I  ever 
say  that  Von  Francius  was  an  exceedingly  handsome  fellow, 
in  a  certain  dark,  clean-shaven  style?  On  that  occasion  he 
was  speaking  with  more  animation  than  was  usual  with  him, 
and  the  person  to  whom  he  had  unbent  so  far  was  the  fair 
Enghshwoman — that  enigmatical  beauty  who  had  cut  my 
friend  at  the  opera.  She  also  was  looking  animated  and  very 
beautiful;  her  face  turned  to  his  with  a  smile — a  glad,  grati- 
fied smile.    He  was  saying: 

"  But  in  the  next  lesson,  you  know " 

They  passed  on.  I  turned  to  ask  Eugen  if  he  had  seen. 
I  needed  not  to  put  the  question.    He  had  seen.    There  was  a 


164  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

forced  smile  upon  his  lips.    Before  I  could  speak  lie  had 
said: 

"  It's  time  to  go  in,  Friedel;  come  along!  "  With  which 
he  turned  into  the  theater,  and  I  followed  thoughtfully. 

Then  it  was  rumored  that  at  the  coming  concert — the 
henefit  of  Von  Francius — a  new  soprano  was  to  appear — a 
young  lady  of  whom  report  used  varied  tones;  some  heliev- 
able  facts,  at  least,  we  learned  about  her.  Her  name,  they 
said,  was  Wedderburn;  she  was  an  Englishwoman,  and  had 
a  most  wonderful  voice.  The  Herr  Direktor  took  a  very  deep 
interest  in  her;  he  not  only  gave  her  lessons,  he  had  asked 
to  give  her  lessons,  and  intended  to  form  of  her  an  artiste  who 
should  one  day  be  to  the  world  a  kind  of  Patti,  Lucca,  or 
!N"ilsson. 

I  had  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind  as  to  who  she  was,  hut  for 
all  that  I  felt  considerable  excitement  on  the  evening  of  the 
haupt-probe  to  the  "  Verlorenes  Paradies." 

Yes,  I  was  right.  Miss  Wedderburn,  the  pupil  of  Von 
Francius,  of  whom  so  much  was  prophesied,  was  the  beau- 
tiful, forlorn-looking  English  girl.  The  feeling  which  grew 
upon  me  that  evening,  and  which  I  never  found  reason  after- 
ward to  alter,  was  that  she  was  modest,  gentle,  yet  spirited, 
very  gifted,  and  an  artiste  by  nature  and  gift,  yet  sadly  ill  at 
ease  and  out  of  place  in  that  world  into  which  Von  Francius 
wished  to  lead  her. 

She  sat  quite  near  to  Eugen  and  me,  and  I  saw  how  alone 
she  was,  and  how  she  seemed  to  feel  her  loneliness.  I  saw 
how  certain  young  ladies  drew  themselves  together,  and 
looked  at  her  (it  was  on  this  occasion  that  I  first  began  to 
notice  the  silent  behavior  of  women  toward  each  other,  and 
the  more  I  have  observed,  the  more  has  my  wonder  grown 
and  increased),  and  whispered  behind  their  music,  and  ' 
shrugged  their  shoulders  when  Von  Francius,  seeing  how 
isolated  she  seemed,  bent  forward  and  said  a  few  kind  words 
to  her. 

I  liked  him  for  it.  After  all,  he  was  a  man.  But  his  dis- 
tinguishing the  child  did  not  add  to  the  delights  of  her  posi- 
tion— rather  made  it  worse.  I  put  myself  in  her  place  as  well 
as  I  could,  and  felt  her  feelings  when  Von  Francius  intro- 
duced her  to  one  of  the  young  ladies  near  her,  who  first  stared 
at  him,  then  at  her,  then  inclined  her  head  a  little  forward 
and  a  little  backward,  turned  her  back  upon  Miss  Wedder- 
burn, and  appeared  lost  in  conversation  of  the  deepest  im- 


THE  FIRST  YIOLim  155 

portance  with  her  neighbor.  And  I  thought  of  the  words 
which  Karl  Linders  had  said  to  us  in  haste  and  anger,  and 
after  a  disappointment  he  had  lately  had,  "  Das  VIeib  ist  der 
Teufel."  Yes,  woman  is  the  devil  sometimes,  thought  I,  and 
a  mean  kind  of  devil,  too.  A  female  Mephistopheles  would 
not  have  damned  Gretchen's  soul,  nor  killed  her  body;  she 
would  have  left  the  latter  on  this  earthly  sphere,  and  damned 
her  reputation. 

Von  Francius  was  a  clever  man,  but  he  made  a  grand  mis- 
take that  night,  unless  he  were  desirous  of  making  his  pro- 
tegee as  uncomfortable  as  possible.  How  could  those  ladies 
fael  otherwise  than  insulted  at  seeing  the  man  of  ice  so  sud- 
denly attentive  and  bland  to  a  nobody,  an  upstart,  and  a 
beautiful  one? 

The  probe  continued,  and  still  she  sat  alone  and  unspoken 
to,  her  only  acquaintance  or  companion  seeming  to  be 
Friiulein  Sartorius,  with  whom  she  had  come  in.  I  saw  how, 
when  Von  Francius  called  upon  her  to  do  her  part,  and  the 
looks  which  had  hitherto  been  averted  from  her  were  now 
turned  pitilessly  and  unwinkingly  upon  her,  she  quailed. 
She  bit  her  lip;  her  hand  trembled.  I  turned  to  Eugen  with 
a  look  which  said  volumes.  He  sat  with  his  arms  folded,  and 
his  face  perfectly  devoid  of  all  expression,  gazing  straight 
before  him. 

Miss  Wedderburn  might  have  been  satisfied  to  the  full  with 
her  revenge.  That  was  a  voice!  such  a  volume  of  pure,  ex- 
quisite melody  as  I  had  rarely  heard.  After  hearing  that,  all 
doubts  were  settled.  The  gift  might  be  a  blessing  or  a  curse 
— let  everyone  decide  that  for  himself,  according  to  his  style 
of  thinking;  but  it  was  there.  She  possessed  the  power  which 
put  her  out  of  the  category  of  commonplace,  and  had  the 
most  melodious  "  Open  Sesame! "  with  which  to  besiege  the 
doors  of  the  courts  in  which  dwell  artists — creative  and  in- 
terpretative. 

The  performance  finished  the  gap  between  her  and  her 
companions.  Their  looks  said,  "  You  are  not  one  of 
us."  My  angry  spirit  said,  "  No;  you  can  never  be  like 
her." 

She  seemed  half  afraid  of  what  she  had  done  when  it  was 
over,  and  shrunk  into  herself  with  downcast  eyes  and  nerv- 
ous quivering  of  the  lips  at  the  subdued  applause  of  the  men. 
I  wanted  to  applaud,  too;  but  I  looked  at  Eugen.  I  had  in- 
stinctively given  him  some  share  in  the  affairs  of  this  level/ 


156  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

creature — a  share  which  he  always  strenuously  repudiated, 
both  tacitly  and  openly. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  saw  him,  I  abstained  from  applaud- 
ing, knowing,  by  a  lightning-quick  intuition,  that  it  would 
be  highly  irritating  to  him.  He  showed  no  emotion;  if  he 
had  done,  I  should  not  have  thought  the  occasion  was  any- 
thing special  to  him.  It  was  his  absurd  gravity,  stony  inex- 
pressiveness,  which  impressed  me  with  the  fact  that  he  was 
moved — moved  against  his  will  and  his  judgment.  He  could 
no  more  help  approving  both  of  her  and  her  voice  than  he 
could  help  admiring  a  perfect,  half-opened  rose. 

It  was  over,  and  we  went  out  of  the  saal,  across  the  road, 
and  home. 

Sigmund,  who  had  not  been  very  well  that  day,  was  awake 
and  restless.  Eugen  took  him  up,  wrapped  him  in  a  little 
bed-gown,  carried  him  into  the  other  room,  and  sat  down 
with  him.  The  child  rested  his  head  on  the  loved  breast, 
and  was  soothed. 

She  had  gone;  the  door  had  closed  after  her.  Eugen 
turned  to  me,  and  took  Sigmund  into  his  arms  again. 

"  Mein  Vater,  who  is  the  beautiful  lady,  and  why  did  you 
speak  so  harshly  to  her?    "Why  did  you  make  her  cry?  " 

The  answer,  though  ostensibly  spoken  to  Sigmund,  was  a 
revelation  to  me. 

"  That  I  may  not  have  to  cry  myself,"  said  Eugen,  kissing 
him. 

"  Could  the  lady  make  thee  cry? "  demanded  Sigmund, 
sitting  up,  much  excited  at  the  idea. 

Another  kiss  and  a  half  laugh  was  the  answer.  Then  he 
bade  him  go  to  sleep,  as  he  did  not  understand  what  he  was 
talking  about. 

By  and  by  Sigmund  did  drop  to  sleep.  Eugen  carried 
him  to  his  bed,  tucked  him  up,  and  returned.  We  sat  in 
silence — such  an  uncomfortable,  constrained  silence  as  had 
ne.ver  before  been  between  us.  I  had  a  book  before  me.  I 
saw  no  word  of  it.  I  could  not  drive  the  vision  away — ^the 
lovely,  pleading  face,  the  penitence.  Good  Heavens!  How 
could  he  repulse  her  as  he  had  done?  Her  repeated  request 
that  he  would  take  that  money — what  did  it  all  mean?  And, 
moreover,  my  heart  was  sore  that  he  had  concealed  it  all  from 
me.    About  the  past  I  felt  no  resentment;  there  was  a  secret 


TILE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  157 

there  which  I  respected;  but  I  was  cut  up  at  this.  The  more 
I  thought  of  it,  the  keener  was  the  pain  I  felt. 

"  Friedel!  " 

I  looked  up.  Eugen  was  leaning  across  the  table,  and  his 
hand  was  stretched  toward  me;  his  eyes  looked  full  into 
mine.    I  answered  his  look,  but  I  was  not  clear  yet. 

"  Forgive  me! " 

"Forgive  thee  what?'* 

"  This  playing  with  thy  confidence." 

"  Don't  mention  it! "  I  forced  myself  to  say,  but  the  sore 
feeling  still  remained.  "  You  have  surely  a  right  to  keep 
your  affairs  to  yourself  if  you  choose." 

"  You  will  not  shake  hands?  Well,  perhaps  I  have  no 
right  to  ask  it;  but  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 

I  put  my  hand  into  his. 

"  I  was  wounded,"  said  I,  "  it  is  true.    But  it  is  over." 

"  Then  listen,  Friedel." 

He  told  me  the  story  of  his  meeting  with  Miss  Wedder- 
burn.  All  he  said  of  the  impression  she  had  made  upon  him 
was: 

*'  I  thought  her  very  charming,  and  the  loveliest  creature 
I  had  ever  seen.  And  about  the  trains.  It  stands  in  this 
way.  I  thought  a  few  hours  of  her  society  would  make  me 
very  happy,  and  would  be  like — oh,  well!  I  knew  that  in  the 
future,  if  she  ever  should  see  me  again,  she  would  either  treat 
me  with  distant  politeness,  as  an  inferior,  or,  supposing  she 
discovered  that  I  had  cheated  her,  would  cut  me  dead.  And, 
as  it  did  not  matter,  as  I  could  not  possibly  be  an  acquaint- 
ance of  hers  in  the  future,  J.  gave  myself  that  pleasure  then. 
It  has  turned  out  a  mistake  on  my  part,  but  that  is  nothing 
new;  my  whole  existence  has  been  a  monstrous  mistake. 
However,  now  she  sees  what  a  churl's  nature  was  under  my 
fair-seeming  exterior,  her  pride  will  show  her  what  to  do. 
She  will  take  a  wrong  view  of  my  character,  but  what  does 
that  signify?  She  will  say  that  to  be  deceitful  first,  and  un- 
civil afterward,  are  the  main  features  of  the  German  char- 
acter, and  when  she  is  at  Cologne  on  her  honeymoon,  she  will 
tell  her  bridegroom  about  this  adventure,  and  he  will  re- 
mark that  the  fellow  wanted  horsewhipping,  and  she " 

"  There!  You  have  exercised  your  imagination  quite  suffi- 
ciently. Then  you  intend  to  keep  up  this  farce  of  not  recog- 
nizing her?    Why?" 


158  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

He  hesitated,  looked  as  nearly  awkward  as  he  could,  and 
said,  a  little  constrainedly: 

"  Because  I  think  it  will  be  for  the  best." 

"  For  you  or  for  her?  "  I  inquired,  not  very  fairly,  but  I 
could  not  resist  it. 

Eugen  flushed  all  over  his  face. 

"  What  a  question!  "  was  all  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  such  a  remarkable  question.  Either  you 
have  grown  exceedingly  nervous  as  to  your  own  strength  of 
resistance,  or  you  fear  for  hers." 

"  Friedhelm,"  said  he  in  a  cutting  voice,  "  that  is  a  tone 
which  I  should  not  have  believed  you  capable  of  taking.  It 
is  vulgar,  my  dear  fellow,  and  uncalled  for;  and  it  is  so  un- 
like you  that  I  am  astonished.  If  you  had  been  one  of  the 
other  fellows " 

I  fired  up. 

"  Excuse  me,  Eugen,  it  might  be  vulgar  if  I  were  merely 
chaffing  you,  but  I  am  not;  and  I  think,  after  what  you  have 
told  me,  that  I  have  said  very  little.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  her 
despising  you.  She  looks  much  more  as  if  she  were  distressed 
at  your  despising  her." 

"  Pre — pos — ter — ous!  " 

"  If  you  can  mention  an  instance  in  her  behavior  this 
evening  which  looked  as  if  she  were  desirous  of  snubbing 
you,  I  should  be  obliged  by  your  mentioning  it,"  I  continued. 

"Well— well!" 

"Well — well!  If  she  had  wished  to  snub  you  she  would 
have  sent  you  that  money  through  the  post,  and  made  an  end 
of  it.  She  simply  desired,  as  was  evident  all  along,  to  apolo- 
gize for  having  been  rude  to  a  person  who  had  been  kind  to 
her.  I  can  quite  understand  it,  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
your  behavior  will  not  have  the  opposite  effect  to  that  you 
expect." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  However,  it  does  not  matter; 
our  paths  lie  quite  apart.  She  will  have  plenty  of  other 
things  to  take  up  her  time  and  thoughts.  Anyhow,  I  am 
glad  that  you  and  I  are  quits  once  more." 

So  was  I.  We  said  no  more  upon  the  subject;  but  I  always 
felt  as  if  a  kind  of  connecting  link  existed  between  my  friend 
and  me,  and  that  beautiful,  solitary  English  girl. 

The  link  was  destined  to  come  yet  closer.  The  concert  was 
over  at  which  she  sung.  She  had  a  success.  I  see  she  has 
not  mentioned  it;  a  success  which  isolated  her  still  more  from 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  159 

her  companions,  inasmuch,  as  it  made  her  more  distinctly 
professional  and  them  more  severely  virtuous. 

One  afternoon  when  Eugen  and  I  happened  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  we  took  Sigmund  to  the  Grafenberg.  We  wan- 
dered about  in  the  fir  wood,  and  at  last  came  to  a  pause  and 
rested.  Eugen  lay  upon  his  back,  and  gazed  up  into  the 
thickness  of  brown-green  fir  above,  and  perhaps  guessed  at 
the  heaven  beyond  the  dark  shade.  I  sat  and  stared  before 
me  through  the  straight,  red-brown  stems  across  the  ground, 

"  With  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged," 

• 
to  an  invisible  beyond,  which  had  charms  for  me,  and  w^as 
a  kind  of  symphonic  beauty  in  my  mind.  Sigmund  lay  fiat 
upon  his  stomach,  kicked  his  heels,  and  made  intricate  pat- 
terns with  the  fir  needles,  while  he  hummed  a  gentle  song 
to  himself  in  a  small,  sweet  voice,  true  as  a  lark's,  but  sadder. 
There  was  utter  stillness  and  utter  calm  all  round. 

Presently  Eugen's  arm  stole  around  Sigmund,  and  drew 
him  closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  they  continued  to  look  at 
each  other  until  a  mutual  smile  broke  upon  both  faces,  and 
the  boy  said,  his  whole  small  frame,  as  well  as  his  voice, 
quivering  (the  poor  little  fellow  had  nerves  that  vibrated  to 
the  slightest  emotion) :  "  I  love  thee." 

A  light  leaped  into  the  father's  eyes;  a  look  of  pain  fol- 
lowed it  quickly. 

"  And  I  shall  never  leave  thee,"  said  Sigmund. 

Eugen  parried  the  necessity  of  speaking  by  a  kiss. 

"  I  love  thee,  too,  Friedel,"  continued  he,  taking  my  hand. 
"We  are  very  happy  together,  aren't  we? "  And  he  laughed 
placidly  to  himself. 

Eugen,  as  if  stung  by  some  tormenting  thought,  sprung 
up,  and  we  left  the  wood. 

Oh,  far-back,  bygone  day!  There  was  a  soft  light  over  you 
shed  by  a  kindlj  sun.  That  was  a  time  in  which  joy  ran  a 
golden  thread  through  the  gray  homespun  of  everyday  life. 

Back  to  the  restauration  at  the  foot  of  the  herg,  where  Sig- 
mund was  supplied  with  milk  and  Eugen  and  I  with  beer, 
where  we  sat  at  a  little  wooden  table  in  a  garden,  and  the 
pleasant  clack  of  friendly  conversation  sounded  around; 
where  the  women  tried  to  make  friends  vrith  Sigmund,  and 
the  girls  whispered  behind  their  coffee-cups  or  {pace,  eleganc 
fiction!)  their  beer  glasses,  and  always  happened  to  be  looking 


160  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

up  if  our  eyes  roved  that  way.  Two  poor  musiker  and  a 
little  boy;  persons  of  no  importance  whatever,  who  could 
scrape  their  part  in  the  symphony  with  some  intelhgence, 
and  feel  they  had  done  their  duty.  Well,  well!  it  is  not  all 
of  us  who  can  do  even  so  much.  I  know  some  instruments 
that  are  always  out  of  tune.  Let  us  be  complacent  where  we 
justly  can.    The  opportunities  are  few. 

We  took  our  way  home.  The  days  were  long,  and  it  was 
yet  light  when  we  returned  and  found  the  reproachful  face 
of  Frau  Schmidt  looking  for  us,  and  her  arms  open  to  re- 
ceive the  weary  little  lad,  who  had  fallen  asleep  on  Ms  father's 
shoulder. 

I  went  upstairs,  and,  by  a  natural  instinct,  to  the  window. 
Those  facing  it  were  open;  someone  moved  in  the  room. 
Two  chords  of  a  piano  were  struck.  Someone  came  and  stood 
by  the  window,  shielded  her  eyes  from  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  which  streamed  down  the  street,  and  looked  westward. 
Eugen  was  passing  behind  me.  I  pulled  him  to  the  window, 
and  we  both  looked — silently,  gravely. 

The  girl  dropped  her  hand;  her  eyes  fell  upon  us.  The 
color  mounted  to  her  cheek;  she  turned  away,  and  went  to 
the  interior  of  the  room.    It  was  May  Wedderbum. 

"Also!  "  said  Eugen  after  a  pause.  "A  new  neighbor;  it 
reminds  me  of  one  of  Andersen's  ^Marchen/  but  I  don't 
know  which." 


BOOK  IV. 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*  **  For  though  he  lived  aloof  from  ken. 

The  world's  unwitnessed  denizen. 

The  love  within  him  stirs 
Abroad,  and  with  the  hearts  of  men 

His  own  confers," 

The  story  of  my  life  from  day  to  day  was  dull  enough, 
game  enough,  for  some  time  after  I  went  to  live  at  the 
Wehrhahn.  I  was  studying  hard,  and  my  only  variety  was 
the  letters  I  had  from  home;  not  very  cheering,  these.  One, 
which  I  received  from  Adelaide,  puzzled  me  somewhat. 
After  speaking  of  her  coming  marriage  in  a  way  which  made 
me  sad  and  uncomfortable,  she  condescended  to  express  hef 
approval  of  what  I  was  doing,  and  went  on: 

"  I  am  catholic  in  my  tastes.  I  suppose  all  our  friends 
would  faint  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a  '  singer '  in  the 
family.  Now,  I  should  rather  like  you  to  be  a  singer — only 
be  a  great  one — not  a  little  twopenny-halfpenny  person,  who 
has  to  advertise  for  engagements. 

"  Now,  I  am  going  to  give  you  some  advice.  This  Herr 
Ton  Francius — your  teacher  or  whatever  he  is.  Be  cautious 
what  you  are  about  with  him.  I  don't  say  more,  but  I  say 
that  again — be  cautious!  Don't  bum  your  fingers.  Now,  I 
have  not  much  time,  and  I  hate  writing  letters,  as  you  know. 
In  a  week  I  am  to  be  married,  and  then — nous  verrnns.  ^Ye 
go  to  Paris  first,  and  then  on  to  Eome,  where  we  shall  win- 
ter— to  gratify  my  taste,  I  wonder,  or  Sir  Peter's,  for  molder- 
ing  ruins,  ancient  pictures,  and  the  Coliseum  by  moonlight? 
I  have  no  doubt  that  we  shall  do  our  duty  by  the  respectable 
old  structures.  Remember  what  I  said,  and  write  to  me  now 
and  then,  «  A." 

162 


162  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  frowned  and  puzzled  a  little  over  this  letter.  Be  ean- 
tious?  In  what  possible  way  could  I  be  cautious?  What 
need  could  there  be  for  it  when  all  that  passed  between  me 
and  Von  Francius  was  the  daily  singing  lesson  at  which  he 
was  so  strict  and  severe,  sometimes  so  sharp  and  cutting  with 
me.  I  saw  him  then;  I  saw  him  also  at  the  constant  proben 
to  concerts  whose  season  had  already  begun;  proben  to  the 
"  Passions-musik,"  the  "  Messiah,"  etc.  At  one  or  two  of 
these  concerts  I  was  to  sing.  I  did  not  like  the  idea,  but  I 
could  not  make  Von  Francius  see  it  as  I  did.  He  said  I  must 
sing — it  was  part  of  my  studies,  and  I  was  fain  to  bend  to  his 
will. 

Von  Francius — I  looked  at  Adelaide's  letter,  and  smiled 
again.  Von  Francius  had  kept  his  word;  he  had  behaved  to 
me  as  a  kind  elder  brother.  He  seemed  instinctively  to 
understand  the  wish,  which  was  very  strong  on  my  part,  not 
to  live  entirely  at  Miss  Hallam's  expense — to  provide  par- 
tially at  any  rate,  for  myself,  if  possible.  He  helped  me  to 
do  this.  Now  he  brought  me  some  music  to  be  copied;  no\7 
he  told  me  of  a  young  lady  who  wanted  lessons  in  English — 
now  of  one  little  tiling,  now  of  another,  which  kept  me,  to 
my  pride  and  joy,  in  such  slender  pocket-money  as  I  needed. 
Truly,  I  used  to  think  in  those  days,  it  does  not  need  much 
money  nor  much  room  for  a  person  like  me  to  keep  her  place 
in  the  world.  I  wished  to  trouble  no  one — only  to  work  as 
hard  as  I  could,  and  do  the  work  that  was  set  for  me  as  well 
as  I  knew  how.     I  had  my  wish  and  so  far  was  not  unhappy. 

But  what  did  Adelaide  mean?  True,  I  had  once  described 
Von  Francius  to  her  as  young,  that  is  youngish,  clever,  and 
handsome.  Did  she,  remembering  my  well-known  suscepti- 
bility, fear  that  I  might  fall  in  love  with  him  and  compromise 
myself  by  some  silly  ScJiwdrmerei?  I  laughed  about  all  by 
myself  at  the  very  idea  of  such  a  thing.  Fall  in  love  with 
Von  Francius,  and — my  eyes  fell  upon  the  two  windows  over 
the  way.  No;  my  heart  was  pure  of  the  faintest  feeling  for 
him,  save  that  of  respect,  gratitude,  and  liking  founded  at 
that  time  more  on  esteem  than  spontaneous  growth.  And 
he — I  smiled  at  that  idea,  too. 

In  all  my  long  interviews  with  Von  Francius  throughout 
our  intercourse  he  maintained  one  unvaried  tone,  that  of  a 
kind,  frank,  protecting  interest,  with  something  of  the  patron 
on  his  part.  He  would  converse  with  me  about  Schiller  and 
Goethe,  true;  he  would  also  caution  me  against  such  and  such 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  163 

shopkeepers  as  extortioners,  and  tell  me  the  place  where  they 
gave  the  largest  discount  on  music  paid  for  on  the  spot; 
would  discuss  the  "  Waldstein  "  or  "  Appassionata  "  with  me, 
or  the  beauties  of  Rubinstein  or  the  deep  meanings  of  Schu- 
mann, also  the  relative  cost  of  living  en  pension  or  providing 
for  one's  self. 

No,  Adelaide  was  mistaken.  I  wished,  parenthetically, 
that  she  could  make  the  acquaintance  of  Von  Francius,  and 
learn  how  mistaken — and  again  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  oppo- 
site windows.  Friedhelm  Helfen  leaned  from  one,  holding 
fast  Cdurvoisier's  boy-  The  rich  Italian  coloring  of  the 
lovely  young  face;  the  dusky  hair;  the  glow  upon  the  cheeks, 
the  deep  blue  of  his  serge  dress,  made  the  effect  of  a  warmly 
tinted  southern  flower;  it  was  a  flower-face,  too;  delicate  and 
rich  at  once. 

Adelaide's  letter  dropped  unheeded  to  the  floor.  Those 
two  could  not  see  me,  and  I  had  a  joy  in  watching  them. 

To  say,  however,  that  I  actually  watched  my  opposite 
neighbors  would  not  be  true,  I  studiously  avoided  watching 
them;  never  sat  in  the  window;  seldonl  showed  myself  at  it, 
though  in  passing  I  sometimes  allowed  myself  to  linger,  and 
so  had  glimpses  of  those  within.  They  were  three  and  I  was 
one.  They  were  the  happier  by  two.  Or  if  I  knew  that  they 
were  out,  that  a  probe  was  going  on,  or  an  opera  or  concert, 
there  was  nothing  I  liked  better  than  to  sit  for  a  time  and 
look  to  the  opposite  windows.  They  were  nearly  always  open, 
as  were  also  mine,  for  the  heat  of  the  stove  was  oppressive  to 
me,  and  I  preferred  to  temper  it  with  a  little  of  the  raw  out- 
side air.  I  used  sometimes  to  hear  from  those  opposite  rooms 
the  practicing  or  playing  of  passages  on  the  violin  and  violon- 
cello— scales,  shakes,  long  complicated  flourishes  and  phrases. 
Sometimes  I  heard  the  very  strains  that  I  had  to  sing  to:  airs, 
scraps  of  airs,  snatches  from  operas,  concerts,  and  symphonies. 
They  were  always  humming  and  singing  things.  They  came 
home  haunted  with  "  The  Last  Eose,"  from  "  ]\Iarta  " — now 
some  air  from  "  Faust,"  "  Der  Freischiitz,"  or  "  Tannhauser." 

But  one  air  was  particular  to  Eugen,  who  seemed  to  be  per- 
fectly possessed  by  it — that  which  I  had  heard  him  humming 
when  I  first  met  him — the  March  from  "  Lenore."  He 
whistled  it  and  sung  it;  played  it  on  violin,  'cello,  and  piano; 
hummed  it  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  last  thing  at  night; 
harped  upon  it  until  in  despair  his  companion  threw  books 
and  music  at  him,  and  he,  dodging  them,  laughed,  begged  par- 


164  TEE  FIEST  VIOLIN. 

don,  was  silent  for  five  minutes,  and  then  the  Marcli  da  capo 
Bet  in  a  halting  kind  of  measure  to  the  ballad. 

By  way  of  a  slight  and  wholesome  variety  there  was  the 
whole  repertory  of  "  VoLkslieder/'  from 

"  Du,  du,  liegst  mir  im  Herzen  ; 
Du,  du,  liegst  mir  im  Sinn," 

up  to 

"  Madele,  ruck,  ruck,  ruck 
An  meine  griine  Seite." 

Sometimes  they — one  or  both  of  them  with  the  boy — might 
be  seen  at  the  window  leaning  out,  whistling  or  talking. 
When  doors  banged  and  quick  steps  rushed  up  or  down  the 
stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  I  knew  it  was  Courvoisier.  Fried- 
helm  Helfen's  movements  were  slower  and  more  sedate.  I 
grew  to  know  his  face  as  well  as  Eugen's,  and  to  like  it  better 
the  more  I  saw  of  it.  A  quite  young,  almost  boyish  face,  with 
an  inexpressibly  pure,  true,  and  good  expression  upon  the 
mouth  and  in  the  dark  brown  eyes.  Reticent,  as  most  good 
faces  are,  but  a  face  which  made  you  desire  to  know  the  owner 
of  it,  made  you  feel  that  you  could  trust  him  in  any  trial. 
His  face  reminded  me  in  a  distant  manner  of  two  others,  also 
faces  of  musicians,  but  greater  in  their  craft  than  he,  they 
being  creators  and  pioneers,  while  he  was  only  a  disciple  of 
Beethoven  and  of  the  living  master,  Rubinstein.  A  gentle, 
though  far  from  weak  face,  and  such  a  contrast  in  expression 
and  everything  else  to  that  of  my  musician,  as  to  make  me 
wonder  sometimes  whether  they  had  been  drawn  to  each  other 
from  very  oppositeness  of  disposition  and  character.  That 
they  were  very  great  friends  I  could  not  doubt;  that  the 
leadership  was  on  Courvoisier's  side  was  no  less  evident. 
Eugen's  affection  for  Helfen  seemed  to  have  something 
fatherly  in  it,  while  I  could  see  that  both  joined  in  an  absorb- 
ing worship  of  the  boy,  who  was  a  very  Croesus  in  love  if  in 
nothing  else.  Sigmund  had,  too,  an  adorer  in  a  third  musi- 
cian, a  violoncellist,  one  of  their  comrades,  who  apparently 
spent  much  of  his  spare  substance  in  purchasing  presents  of 
toys  and  books  and  other  offerings,  which  he  laid  at  the  shrine 
of  St.  Sigmund,  with  v;hat  success  I  could  not  tell.  Beyond 
this  young  fellow,  Karl  Linders,  they  had  not  many  visitors. 
Young  men  used  occasionally  to  appear  with  violin-cases  in 
their  hands,  coming  for  lessons,  probably. 


THE  FIRST  YIOLm.  165 

All  these  things  I  saw  without  absolutely  watching  for 
them;  they  made  that  impression  upon  me  which  the  most 
trifling  facta  connected  with  a  person  around  whom  cling  all 
one's  deepest  pleasures  and  deepest  pains  ever  do  and  must 
make.  I  was  glad  to  know  them,  but  at  the  same  time  they 
impressed  the  loneliness  and  aloofness  of  my  own  life  more 
decidedly  upon  me. 

I  remember  one  small  incident  which,  at  the  time  it  hap- 
pened, struck  home  to  me.  My  windows  were  open;  it  was 
an  October  afternoon,  mild  and  sunny.  The  yellow  light 
shone  with  a  peaceful  warmth  upon  the  afternoon  quietness 
of  the  street.  Suddenly  that  quietness  was  broken.  The 
sound  of  music,  the  peculiar  blatant  noise  of  trumpets,  smote 
the  air.  It  came  nearer,  and  with  it  the  measured  tramp  of 
feet.  I  rose  and  went  to  look  out.  A  Hussar  regiment  was 
passing;  before  them  was  borne  a  soldier's  coffin;  they  carried 
a  comrade  to  his  grave.  The  music  they  played  was  the 
"  Funeral  March  for  the  Death  of  a  Hero,"  from  the  "  Sin- 
fonia  Eroica."  Muffled,  slow,  grand,  and  mournful,  it  went 
wailing  and  throbbing  by.  The  procession  passed  slowly  on 
in  the  October  sunshine,  along  the  Schadowstrasse,  turning 
off  by  the  Hofgarten,  and  so  on  to  the  cemetery.  I  leaned 
out  of  the  window  and  looked  after  it — forgetting  all  outside, 
till  just  as  the  last  of  the  procession  passed  by  my  eyes  fell 
upon  Courvoisier  going  into  his  house,  and  who  presently 
entered  the  room.  He  was  unperceived  by  Friedhelm  and 
Sigmund,  who  were  looking  after  the  procession.  The 
child's  face  was  earnest,  almost  solemn — he  had  not  seen  his 
father  come  up.  I  saw  Helfen's  lips  caress  Sigmund's  loose 
black  hair  that  waved  just  beneath  them. 

Then  I  saw  a  figure — only  a  black  shadow  to  my  eyes,  which 
were  dazzled  by  the  sun — come  behind  them.  One  hand  was 
laid  upon  Helfen's  shoulder,  another  turned  the  child's  chin. 
What  a  change!  Friedhelm's  grave  face  smiled;  Sigmund 
sprung  aside,  made  a  leap  to  his  father,  who  stooped  to  him, 
and  clasping  his  arms  tight  round  his  neck  was  raised  up  in 
his  arms. 

They  were  all  satisfied — all  smiling — all  happy.  I  turned 
away.  That  was  a  home — that  was  a  meeting  of  three  affec- 
tions. What  more  could  they  want?  I  shut  the  window — 
shut  it  all  out,  and  myself  with  it  into  the  cold,  feeling  my 
lips  quiver.  It  was  very  fine,  this  life  of  independence  and 
self-support,  but  it  was  dreadfully  lonely. 


166  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

The  days  went  on.  Adelaide  was  now  Lady  Le  Marchant. 
She  had  written  to  me  again,  and  warned  me  once  more  to  be 
careful  what  I  was  about.  She  had  said  that  she  liked  her 
life — at  least  she  said  so  in  her  first  two  or  three  letters,  and 
then  there  fell  a  sudden  utter  silence  about  herself  which 
seemed  to  me  ominous. 

Adelaide  had  always  acted  upon  the  assumption  that  Sir 
Peter  was  a  far  from  strong-minded  individual,  with  a  certain 
hardness  and  cunning  perhaps  in  relation  to  money  matters, 
but  nothing  that  a  clever  wife,  with  a  strong  enough  sense  of 
her  own  privileges,  could  not  overcome. 

She  said  nothing  to  me  about  herself.  She  told  me  about 
Eome;  who  was  there;  what  they  did  and  looked  like;  what 
she  wore;  what  compliments  were  paid  to  her— that  was  all. 

Stella  told  me  my  letters  were  dull — and  I  dare  say  they 
were — and  that  there  was  no  use  in  her  writing,  because  noth- 
ing ever  happened  in  Skemford,  which  was  also  true.  And 
as  for  Eugen,  we  were  on  exactly  the  same  terms — or  rather  no 
terms — as  before.  Opposite  neighbors,  and  as  far  removed  as 
if  we  had  lived  at  the  antipodes. 

My  life,  as  time  went  on,  grew  into  a  kind  of  fossilized 
dream,  in  which  I  rose  up  and  lay  down,  practiced  so  many 
hours  a  day,  ate  and  drank  and  took  my  lesson,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  been  living  so  for  years,  and  should  continue  to 
live  on  so  to  the  end  of  my  days — until  one  morning  my  eyes 
would  not  open  again,  and  for  me  the  world  would  have  come 
to  an  end. 

CHAPTER  11. 

•*  And  nearer  still  shall  further  be. 
And  words  shall  plague  and  vex  and  buffet  thee." 

It  was  December,  close  upon  Christmas.  Winter  at  last 
in  real  earnest.  A  kack  frost.  The  earth  bound  in  fetters 
of  iron.  The  land  gray;  the  sky  steel;  the  wind  a  dagger. 
The  trees,  leafless  and  stark,  rattled  ttieir  shriveled  boughs 
together  in  that  wind. 

It  met  you  at  corners  and  froze  the  words  out  of  your, 
mouth;  it  whistled  a  low,  fiendish,  malignant  whistle  round' 
the  houses;  as  vicious  and  little  louder  than  the  buzz  of  a 
mosquito.  It  swept — thin,  keen,  and  cutting — down  the 
Konigsallee,  and  blew  fine  black  dust  into  one's  face. 


THE  FIRST  VlOim.  167 

It  cut  up  the  skaters  upon  the  pond  in  the  Neue  Anlage, 
which  was  in  the  center  of  the  town,  and  comparatively  shel- 
tered; but  it  was  in  its  glory,  whistling  across  the  flat  fields 
leading  to  the  great  skating-ground  of  Elberthal  in  general — 
the  Schwanenspiegel  at  the  Grafenbergerdahl. 

The  Grafenberg  was  a  low  chain  of  what,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  may  be  called  hills,  lying  to  the  north  of  Elber- 
thal. The  country  all  around  this  unfortunate  apology  for  a 
range  of  liills  was,  if  possible,  flatter  than  ever.  The  Grafen- 
bergerdahl was,  properly,  no  "  dale  "  at  all,  but  a  broad  plain 
of  meadows,  with  the  railway  cutting  them  at  one  point,  then 
diverging  and  running  on  under  the  Grafenberg. 

One  vast  meadow  which  lay,  if  possible,  a  trifle  lower  than 
the  rest,  was  flooded  regularly  by  the  autumn  rains,  but  not 
deeply.  It  was  frozen  over  now,  and  formed  a  model  skating 
place,  and  so,  apparently,  thought  the  townspeople,  for  they 
came  out,  singly  or  in  bodies,  and  from  nine  in  the  morning 
till  dusk  the  place  was  crowded,  and  the  merry  music  of  the 
iron  on  the  ice  ceased  not  for  a  second. 

I  discovered  this  place  of  resort  by  accident  one  day  when 
I  was  taking  a  constitutional,  and  found  myself  upon  the  bor- 
ders of  the  great  frozen  mere  covered  with  skaters.  I  stood 
looking  at  them,  and  my  blood  warmed  at  the  sight.  If  there 
were  one  thing,  one  accomplishment  upon  wliich  I  prided 
myself,  it  was  this  very  one — skating. 

In  a  drawing  room  I  might  feel  awkward — confused  among 
clever  people,  bashful  among  accomplished  ones;  shy  about 
music  and  painting,  diffident  as  to  my  voice,  and  deprecatory 
in  spirit  as  to  the  etiquette  to  be  observed  at  a  dinner  party. 
Give  me  my  skates  and  put  me  on  a  sheet  of  ice,  and  I  was 
at  home. 

As  I  paused  and  watched  the  skaters,  it  struck  me  that, 
there  was  no  reason  at  all  why  I  should  deny  myself  that, 
seasonable  enjoyment.  I  had  my  skates,  and  the  mere  was' 
large  enough  to  hold  me  as  well  as  the  others — indeed,  I  saw- 
in  the  distance  great  tracts  of  virgin  ice  to  which  no  skater 
seemed  yet  to  have  reached. 

I  went  home,  and  on  the  following  afternoon  carried  out 
my  resolution;  though  it  was  after  three  o'clock  before  I 
could  set  out. 

A  long,  bleak  way.  First  up  the  merry  Jagerhofstrasse, 
then  through  the  Malkasten  garden,  up  a  narrow  lane,  then 
out  upon  the  open,  bleak  road,  with  that  bitter  wind  going 


168  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

ping-ping  at  one's  ears  and  upon  one's  cheek.  Through  a  big 
gateway,  and  a  courtyard  pertaining  to  an  orphan  asylum — 
along  a  lane  bordered  with  apple  trees  through  a  rustic  arch, 
and,  hurrah!  the  field  was  before  me — not  so  thickly  covered 
as  yesterday,  for  it  was  getting  late,  and  the  Elberthalers  did 
not  seem  to  understand  the  joy  of  careering  over  the  black  ice 
by  moonlight,  in  the  night  wind.  It  was,  however,  as  yet  far 
from  dark,  and  the  moon  was  rising  in  silver  yonder,  in  a  sky 
of  a  pale  but  clear  blue. 

I  quickly  put  on  my  skates — stumbled  to  the  edge,  and  set 
off.  I  took  a  few  turns,  circling  among  the  people — ^then, 
seeing  several  turn  to  look  at  me,  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  a  dis- 
tant clump  of  reeds  rising  from  the  ice,  and  resolved  to  make 
it  my  goal.  I  could  only  just  see  it,  even  with  my  long- 
sighted eyes,  but  struck  out  for  it  bravely.  Past  group  after 
group  of  the  skaters,  who  turned  to  look  at  my  scarlet  shawl  as 
it  flashed  past.  I  glanced  at  them  and  skimmed  smoothly  on, 
till  I  came  to  the  outside  circle  where  there  was  a  skater  all 
alone,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  greatcoat  pockets,  the 
collar  of  the  same  turned  high  about  his  ears,  and  the  inevita- 
ble little  gray  cloth  Studentenhut  crowning  the  luxuriance  of 
Waving  dark  hair.  He  was  gliding  round  in  complicated 
figures  and  circles,  doing  the  outside  edge  for  his  own  solitary 
gratification,  so  far  as  I  could  see;  active,  graceful,  and  mus- 
cular, with  practiced  ease  and  assured  strength  in  every  limb. 
It  needed  no  second  glance  on  my  part  to  assure  me  who  he 
was — even  if  the  dark  bright  eyes  had  not  been  caught  by  the 
flash  of  my  cloak,  and  gravely  raised  for  a  moment  as  I  flew 
by.  I  dashed  on,  breasting  the  wind.  To  reach  the  bunch 
of  reeds  seemed  more  than  ever  desirable  now.  I  would  make 
it  my  sole  companion  until  it  was  time  to  go  away.  At  least 
he  had  seen  me,  and  I  was  safe  from  any  contretemps — he 
would  avoid  me  as  strenuously  as  I  avoided  him.  But  the 
first  fresh  lust  after  pleasure  was  gone.  Just  one  moment's 
glance  into  a  face  had  had  the  power  to  alter  everything  so 
much.    I  skated  on,  as  fast,  as  surely  as  ever,  but, 

"  A  joy  has  taken  flight." 

The  pleasant  sensation  of  solitude,  which  I  could  so  easily 
have  felt  among  a  thousand  people  had  he  not  been  counted 
among  them,  was  gone.  The  roll  of  my  skates  upon  the  ict 
had  lost  lis  music  for  me;  the  wind  felt  colder — I  sadder.    At 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  169 

least  I  thought  so.  Should  I  go  away  again,  now  that  this 
disturbing  element  had  appeared  upon  the  scene?  No,  no, 
no!  said  something  eagerly  within  me,  and  I  bit  my  lip,  and 
choked  back  a  kind  of  sob  of  disgust  as  I  realized  that, 
despite  my  gloomy  reflections,  my  heart  was  beating  a  high, 
rapid  march  of — joy!  as  I  skimmed,  all  alone,  far  away  from 
the  crowd,  among  the  dismal  withered  reeds,  and  round  the 
little  islets  of  stiffened  grass  and  rushes,  which  were  frozen 
upright  in  their  places. 

The.  daylight  faded,  and  the  moon  rose.  The  people  were 
going  away.  The  distant  buzz  of  laughter  had  grown  silent. 
I  could  dimly  discern  some  few  groups,  but  very  few,  still 
left,  and  one  or  two  solitary  figures.  Even  my  preternatural 
eagerness  could  not  discern  who  they  were.  The  darkness, 
the  long  walk  home,  the  probe  at  seven,  which  I  should  be 
too  tired  to  attend,  all  had  quite  slipped  from  my  mind;  it 
was  possible  that  among  those  figures,  which  I  still  dimly 
saw,  was  yet  remaining  that  of  Courvoisier,  and  surely  there 
was  no  harm  in  my  staying  here. 

I  struck  out  in  another  direction,  and  flew  on  in  the  keen 
air;  the  frosty  moon  shedding  a  weird  light  upon  the  black 
ice;  I  saw  the  railway  lines,  polished,  gleaming  too  in  the 
light;  the  belt  of  dark  firs  to  my  right;  the  red  sand  soil 
frozen  hard  and  silvered  over  wdth  frost.  Flat  and  tame,  but 
still  beautiful.  I  felt  a  kind  of  rejoicing  in  it;  I  felt  it  hom.e. 
I  was  probably  the  first  person  who  had  been  there  since  the 
freezing  of  the  mere,  thought  I,  and  that  idea  was  soon  con- 
verted to  a  certainty  in  my  mind,  for  in  a  second  my  rapid 
career  was  interrupted.  At  the  furthest  point  from  help  or 
human  presence  the  ice  gave  way  with  a  crash,  and  I  shrieked 
aloud  at  the  shock  of  the  bitter  water.  Oh,  how  cold  it  was! 
how  piercing,  frightful,  numbing!  It  was  not  deep — scarcely 
above  my  knees,  but  the  difficulty  was  how  to  get  out.  Put 
my  hand  where  I  would,  the  ice  gave  way.  I  could  only 
plunge  in  the  icy  water,  feeling  the  sodden  grass  under  my 
feet.  What  sort  of  things  might  there  not  be  in  that  water? 
A  cold  shudder,  worse  than  any  ice,  shot  through  me  at  the 
idea  of  newts  and  rats  and  water-serpents,  absurd  though  it 
was.  I  screamed  again  in  desperation,  and  tried  to  haul  my- 
self out  by  catching  at  the  rushes.  They  were  rotten  with 
the  frost  and  gave  way  in  my  hand.  I  made  a  frantic  effort 
at  the  ice  again;  stumbled  and  fell  on  my  knees  in  the  water. 
I  was  wet  all  over  now,  and  I  gasped.     My  limbs  ached  ago- 


IVO  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

nizingly  vnih.  the  cold.  I  should  be,  if  not  drowned,  yet  be- 
numbed, frozen  to  death  here  alone  in  the  great  mere,  among 
the  frozen  reeds  and  under  the  steely  sky. 

I  was  pausing,  standing  still,  and  rapidly  becoming  almost 
too  benumbed  to  think  or  hold  myself  up,  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  skates  and  the  weird  measure  of  the  "  Lenore 
March  "  again.  I  held  my  breath;  I  desired  intensely  to  call 
out,  shriek  aloud  for  help,  but  I  could  not.  Not  a  word 
would  come. 

"  I  did  hear  someone,"  he  muttered,  and  then  in  the  moon- 
light he  came  skating  past,  saw  me,  and  stopped. 

"  Sie,  Fraulein!  "  he  began  quickly,  and  then  altering  his 
tone,  "  The  ice  has  broken.     Let  me  help  you." 

"  Don't  come  too  near;  the  ice  is  very  thin — it  doesn't  hold 
at  all,"  I  chattered,  scarcely  able  to  get  the  words  out. 

"You  are  cold?"  he  asked,  and  smiled.  I  felt  the  smile 
cruel;  and  realized  that  I  probably  looked  rather  ludicrous. 

"  Cold!  "  I  repeated  with  an  irrepressible  short  sob. 

He  knelt  down  upon  the  ice  at  about  a  yard's  distance 
from  me. 

"  Here  it  is  strong,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  arms.  "  Lean 
this  way,  mein  Fraulein,  and  I  will  lift  you  out." 

"  Oh,  no!     You  will  certainly  fall  in  yourself." 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,"  he  said  imperatively,  and  I  obeyed, 
leaning  a  little  forward.  He  took  me  round  the  waist,  lifted 
me  quietly  out  of  the  water,  and  placed  me  upon  the  ice  at  a 
discreet  distance  from  the  hole  in  which  I  had  been  stuck, 
then  rose  himself,  apparently  undisturbed  by  the  effort. 

Miserable,  degraded  object  that  I  felt!  My  clothes  cling- 
ing round  me;  icy  cold,  shivering  from  head  to  foot;  so 
aching  with  cold  that  I  could  no  longer  stand.  As  he  opened 
his  mouth  to  say  something  about  its  being  "  happily  accom- 
plished," I  sunk  upon  my  knees  at  his  feet.  My  strength  had 
deserted  me;  I  could  no  longer  support  myself. 

"  Frozen!  "  he  remarked  to  himself,  as  he  stooped  and  half 
raised  me.  "  I  see  what  must  be  done.  Let  me  take  off 
your  skates — sonst  gehfs  nicht." 

I  sat  down  upon  the  ice,  half  hysterical,  partly  from  the 
sense  of  the  degrading,  ludicrous  plight  I  was  in,  partly  from 
intense  yet  painful  delight  at  being  thus  once  more  with  him, 
seeing  some  recognition  in  his  eyes  again,  and  hearing  some 
cordiality  in  his  voice. 

He  unfastened  my  skates  deftly  and  quickly,  slung  them 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  VH 

over  his  arm,  and  helped  me  up  again.  I  essayed  feebly  to 
walk,  but  my  limbs  were  numb  with  cold.  I  could  not  put 
one  foot  before  the  other,  but  could  only  cling  to  his  arm  in 
silence. 

"  So! "  said  he,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  We  are  all  alone 
here!     A  fine  time  for  a  moonlight  skating." 

"  Ah,  yes!  "  said  I  wearily,  "  but  I  can't  move." 

"  You  need  not,"  said  he.  "  I  am  going  to  carry  you  away 
in  spite  of  yourself,  like  a  popular  preacher." 

He  put  his  arm  round  my  waist  and  bade  me  hold  fast  to 
his  shoulder.  I  obeyed,  and  directly  found  myself  carried 
along  in  a  swift,  delightful  movement,  which  seemed  to  my 
drowsy,  deadened  senses,  quick  as  the  nimble  air,  smooth  as  a 
swallow's  flight.  He  was  a  consummate  master  in  the  art  of 
skating — that  was  evident.  A  strong,  unfailing  arm  held  me 
fast.  I  felt  no  sense  of  danger,  no  fear  lest  he  should  fall  or 
stumble;  no  such  idea  entered  my  head. 

We  had  far  to  go — from  one  end  of  the  great  Schwanen- 
spiegel  to  the  other.  Despite  the  rapid  motion,  numbness 
overcame  me;  my  eyes  closed,  my  head  sunk  upon  my  hands, 
which  were  clasped  over  his  shoulder.  A  sob  rose  to  my 
throat.  In  the  midst  of  the  torpor  that  was  stealing  over  me, 
there  shot  every  now  and  then  a  shiver  of  ecstasy  so  keen  as 
to  almost  terrify  me.  But  then  even  that  died  away.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  whirl  round  me — the  meadows  and  trees,  the 
stiff  rushes  and  the  great  black  sheet  of  ice,  and  the  white 
moon  in  the  inky  heavens  became  only  a  confused  dream. 
Was  it  sleep  or  faintness,  or  coma?  What  was  it  that  seemed 
to  make  my  senses  as  dull  as  my  limbs,  and  as  heavy?  I 
scarcely  felt  the  movement,  as  he  lifted  me  from  the  ice  to  the 
ground.  His  shout  did  not  waken  me,  though  he  sent  the 
full  power  of  his  voice  ringing  out  toward  the  pile  of  build- 
ings to  our  left. 

With  the  last  echo  of  his  voice  I  lost  consciousness  entirely; 
all  failed  and  faded,  and  then  vanished  before  me,  until  I 
Opened  my  eyes  again  feebly,  and  found  myself  in  a  great 
stony-lookiDg  room,  before  a  big  bl^ck  stove,  the  door  of 
which  was  thrown  open.  I  was  lying  upon  a  sofa,  and  a 
woman  was  bending  over  me.  At  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  was  Courvoisier,  looking  down  at  me, 
his  arms  folded,  his  face  pensive. 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  cried  I,  starting  up.  "  What  is  the  matter? 
1  must  go  home." 


173  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

"You  shall — when  you  can,"  said  Courvoisier,  smiling  as 
he  had  smiled  when  I  first  knew  him,  before  all  these 
miserable  misunderstandings  had  come  between  us. 

My  apprehensions  were  stilled.  It  did  me  good,  warmed 
me,  sent  the  tears  trembling  to  my  eyes,  when  I  found  that 
his  voice  had  not  resumed  the  old  accent  of  ice,  nor  his  eyes 
that  cool,  unrecognizing  stare  which  had  frozen  me  so  many 
a  time  in  the  last  few  weeks. 

"  Trinken  Su  'mal,  Frdulein,"  said  the  woman,  holding  a 
glass  to  my  lips;  it  held  hot  spirits  and  water,  which  smoked. 

"  Bah! "  repHed  I  gratefully,  and  turning  away. 

"  Nie,  nie ! "  she  repeated.  "  You  must  drink  just  a 
Schndppschen,  Fraulein." 

I  pushed  it  away  with  some  disgust.  Courvoisier  took  it 
from  her  hand  and  held  it  to  me. 

"  Don't  be  so  foolish  and  childish!  Think  of  your  voice 
after  this,"  said  he  smiling  kindly;  and  I,  with  an  odd  sensa- 
tion, choked  down  my  tears  and  drank  it.  It  was  bad — 
despite  my  desire  to  please,  I  found  it  very  bad. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  he,  with  a  sympathetic  look,  as  I 
made  a  horrible  face  after  drinking  it,  and  he  took  the  glass. 
"  And  now  this  woman  wil]  lend  you  some  dry  things.  Shall 
I  go  straight  to  Elberthal  and  send  a  drosky  here  for  you,  or 
will  you  try  to  walk  home?  " 

"  Oh,  I  will  walk.  I  am  sure  it  would  be  the  best — ^if — do 
you  think  it  would?  " 

"  Do  you  feel  equal  to  it?  is  the  question,"  he  answered, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  though  I  was  looking  hard  at 
him  he  did  not  look  at  me,  but  only  into  the  glass  he  held. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  And  they  say  that  people  who  have  been 
nearly  drowned  should  always  walk;  it  does  them  good." 

"  In  that  case  then,"  said  he,  repressing  a  smile,  "  I  should 
say  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  try.  But  pray  make  haste 
and  get  your  wet  things  off,  or  you  will  come  to  serious 
harm." 

"  I  will  be  as  quick  as  ever  I  can." 

"  Now  hurry,"  he  replied,  sitting  down,  and  pulling  one  of 
:the  woman's  children  toward  him.  *'  Come,  mein  Junge,  tell 
me  how  old  you  are?  " 

I  followed  the  woman  to  an  inner  room,  where  she  divested 
me  of  my  dripping  things,  and  attired  me  in  a  costume  con- 
sisting of  a  short  full  brown  petticoat,  a  blue  woolen  jacket, 
thick  blue  knitted  stockings,  and  a  pair  of  wide  low  shoes, 


FEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  173 

which  habiliments  constituted  the  uniform  of  the  orphan 
asylum  of  which  she  was  matron,  and  belonged  to  her  niece. 

She  expatiated  upon  the  warmth  of  the  dress,  and  did  not 
produce  any  outer  wrap  or  shawl,  and  I,  only  anxious  to  go, 
Baid  nothing,  but  twisted  up  my  loose  hair,  and  went  back 
into  the  large  stony  room  before  spoken  of,  from  wliich  a 
great  noise  had  been  proceeding  for  some  time. 

I  stood  in  the  doorway  and  saw  Eugen  surrounded  by  other 
children,  in  addition  to  the  one  he  had  first  called  to  him. 
There  were  likewise  two  dogs,  and  they — the  children,  the 
dogs,  and  Herr  Concertmeister  Courvoisier  most  of  all — were 
making  as  much  noise  as  they  possibly  could.  I  paused  for  a 
moment  to  have  the  small  gratification  of  watching  the  scene. 
One  child  on  his  knee  and  one  on  his  shoulder  pulling  his 
hair,  which  was  all  rufiled  and  on  end,  a  laugh  upon  his  face, 
a  dancing  light  in  his  eyes  as  if  he  felt  happy  and  at  home 
among  all  the  little  flaxen  heads. 

Could  he  be  the  same  man  who  had  behaved  so  coldly  to 
me?  My  heart  went  out  to  him  in  this  kinder  moment. 
Why  was  he  so  genial  with  those  children  and  so  harsh  to  mc, 
who  was  little  better  than  a  child  myself? 

His  eye  fell  upon  me  as  he  held  a  shouting  and  kicking 
child  high  in  the  air,  and  his  own  face  laughed  all  over  in 
mirth  and  enjoyment. 

"  Come  here.  Miss  Wedderbum;  this  is  Hans,  there  is 
Fritz,  and  here  is  Franz — a  jolly  trio;  aren't  they?  " 

He  put  the  child  into  his  mother's  arms,  who  regarded  him 
with  an  eye  of  approval,  and  told  him  that  it  was  not  every- 
one who  knew  how  to  ingratiate  himself  with  her  children, 
who  were  uncommonly  spirited. 

"Eeady?"  he  asked,  surveying  me  and  my  costume,  and 
laughing.     "  Don't  you  feel  a  stranger  in  these  garments?  '* 

"No!     Why?" 

"  I  should  have  said  silk  and  lace  and  velvet,  or  fine  mus- 
lins and  embroideries,  were  more  in  your  style." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  I  was  just  thinldng  how  ad- 
mirably this  costume  suits  me,  and  that  I  should  do  well  to 
adopt  it  permanently." 

"  Perhaps  there  was  a  mirror  in  the  inner  room,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"A  mirror!     Why?" 

*'  Then  your  idea  would  quite  be  accounted  for.  Young 
ladies  must  of  course  wish  to  wear  that  which  becomes  them." 


174  THE  FIRST  YIOLIN. 

''Very  becoming! "  I  sneered  grandly. 

"  Veiy!  "  he  replied  emphatically.  "  It  makes  me  wish  to 
be  an  orphan." 

"  Ah,  mein  Herr,"  said  the  woman  reproachfully,  for  he 
had  spoken  German.  "  Don't  jest  about  that.  If  you  have 
parents " 

"  No,  I  haA-en't,"  he  interposed  hastily. 

"  Or  children  either?  " 

"  I  should  not  else  have  understood  yours  so  well,"  he 
laughed.     "  Come,  my — Miss  Wedderburn,  if  you  are  ready." 

After  arranging  with  the  woman  that  she  should  dry  my 
things  and  return  them,  receiving  her  own  in  exchange,  we 
left  the  house. 

It  was  quite  moonlight  now;  the  last  faint  streak  of  twilight 
had  disappeared.  The  way  that  we  must  traverse  to  reach 
the  town  stretched  before  us,  long,  straight,  and  fiat. 

"Where  is  your  shawl?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  left  it;  it  was  wet  through." 

Before  I  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  stripped  off  his 
heavy  overcoat,  and  I  felt  its  warmth  and  thickness  about  my 
shoulders. 

"  Oh,  don't! "  I  cried,  in  great  distress,  as  I  strove  to  re- 
move it  again,  and  looked  imploringly  into  his  face.  *'  Don't 
do  that!     You  will  get  cold;  you  will " 

"  Get  cold!  "  he  laughed,  as  if  much  amused,  as  he  drew 
the  coat  around  me  and  fastened  it,  making  no  more  ado  of 
my  resisting  hands  than  if  they  had  been  bits  of  straw. 

"  So!  "  said  he,  pushing  one  of  my  arms  through  the  sleeve. 
"  Now,"  as  he  still  held  it  fastened  together,  and  looked  half 
laughingly  at  me,  "  do  you  intend  to  keep  it  on  or  not?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must." 

"  I  call  that  gratitude.  Take  my  arm — so!  You  are  weak 
yet." 

"We  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time.  I  was  happy;  for 
the  first  time  since  the  night  I  had  heard  "  Lohengrin  "  I  'was 
happy  and  at  rest.  True,  no  forgiveness  had  been  asked  or 
extended;  but  he  had  ceased  to  behave  as  if  I  were  not  for- 
given. 

"  Am  I  not  going  too  fast?  "  he  inquired. 

"  N-no." 

"Yes,  I  am,  I  see.    "We  will  moderate  the  pace  a  little." 

"We  walked  more  slowly.  Physically  I  was  inexpressibly 
weary.     The  reaction  after  my  drenching  had  set  in;  I  felt 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  1^5 

a  languor  which  amounted  to  pain,  and  an  aching  and  weak- 
ness in  every  Umb.  I  tried  to  regret  the  event,  but  could  not; 
tried  to  wish  it  were  not  such  a  long  walk  to  Elberthal,  and 
found  myself  perversely  regretting  that  it  was  such  a  short 
one. 

At  length  the  lights  of  the  town  came  in  sight.  I  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.  Soon  it  would  be  over — "the  glory  and  the 
dream." 

"  I  think  we  are  exactly  on  the  way  to  your  house,  niclit 
wahr?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes;  and  to  yours  since  we  are  opposite  neighbors." 

"  Yes." 

"You  are  not  as  lonely  as  I  am,  though;  you  have  com- 
panions." 

"  I — oh — Friedhelm;  yes." 

"  And — your  little  boy." 

"  Sigmund  also,"  was  all  he  said. 

But  "  auch  Sigmund  "  may  express  much  more  in  German 
than  in  English.     It  did  so  then. 

"  And  you?  "  he  added. 

"  I  am  alone,"  said  I. 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  foolishly  sentimental.  The  sigh  that 
followed  my  words  was  involuntary. 

"  So  you  are.     But  I  suppose  you  like  it?  " 

"  Like  it?     What  can  make  you  think  so?  " 

*'  Well,  at  least  you  have  good  friends." 

"Have  I?  Oh,  yes,  of  course!"  said  I,  thinking  of  Von 
Francius. 

"  Do  you  get  on  with  your  music  ?  "  he  next  inquired. 

"  I  hope  so.  I — do  you  think  it  strange  that  I  should  live 
there  all  alone?"  I  asked,  tormented  with  a  desire  to  know 
what  he  did  think  of  me,  and  crassly  ready  to  burst  into 
explanations  on  the  least  provocation.  I  was  destined  to  be 
undeceived. 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  it  at  all;  it  is  not  my  business." 

Snub  number  one.  He  had  spoken  quickly,  as  if  to  clear 
himself  as  much  as  possible  from  any  semblance  of  interest 
to  me. 

I  went  on,  rashly  plunging  into  further  intricacies  of  con- 
versation: 

"  It  is  curious  that  you  and  I  should  not  only  live  near  to 
each  other,  but  actually  have  the  same  profession  at  last." 

"How?" 


176  THE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

Snub  number  two.     But  I  persevered. 

"  Music,     Your  profession  is  music,  and  mine  will  be." 

"I  do  not  see  the  resemblance.  There  is  little  point  of 
likeness  between  a  young  lady  who  is  in  training  for  a  prima 
donna  and  an  obscure  musiker,  who  contributes  his  share  of 
shakes  and  runs  to  the  symphony." 

*'  I  in  training  for  a  prima  donna!     How  can  you  say  so?  " 

"  Do  we  not  all  know  the  forte  of  Herr  von  Francius? 
And — excuse  me — are  not  your  windows  opposite  to  ours,  and 
open  as  a  rule?  Can  I  not  hear  the  music  you  practice,  and 
shall  I  not  believe  my  own  ears?  " 

"  I  am  sure  your  own  ears  do  not  tell  you  that  a  future 
prima  donna  lives  opposite  to  you,"  said  I,  feeling  most 
insanely  and  unreasonably  hurt  and  cut  up  at  the  idea. 

"Will  you  tell  me  that  you  are  not  studying  for  the  stage?  " 

"  I  never  said  I  was  not.  I  said  I  was  not  a  future  prima 
donna.  My  voice  is  not  half  good  enough.  I  am  not  clever 
enough,  either." 

He  laughed. 

"  As  if  voice  or  cleverness  had  anything  to  do  with  it! 
Personal  appearance  and  friends  at  court  are  the  chief  things. 
I  have  known  prima  donne, — seen  them,  I  mean, — and  from 
my  place  below  the  footlights  I  have  had  the  impertinence  to 
judge  them  upon  their  own  merits.  Provided  they  were 
handsome,  impudent,  and  unscrupulous  enough,  their  public 
seemed  gladly  to  dispense  with  art,  cultivation,  or  genius  in 
their  performances  and  conceptions." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  am,  or  shall  be  in  time,  handsome, 
impudent,  and  unscrupulous  enough,"  said  I  in  a  low,  choked 
tone. 

My  fleeting  joy  was  being  thrust  back  by  hands  most  ruth- 
less. Unmixed  satisfaction  for  even  the  brief  space  of  an 
hour  or  so  was  not  to  be  included  in  my  lot. 

"0,  heivahre!"  said  he,  with  a  little  laugh,  that  chilled 
me  still  further.  "I  think  no  such  thing.  The  beauty  is 
there,  mein  Frdulein — pardon  me  for  saying  so " 

Indeed,  I  was  well  able  to  pardon  it.  Had  he  been  inform- 
ing his  grandmother  that  there  were  the  remains  of  a  hand- 
some woman  to  be  traced  in  her,  he  could  not  have  spoken 
more  unenthusiastically. 

"  The  beauty  is  there.     The  rest,  as  I  said,  when  one  has 
friends,  these  things  are  arranged  for  one." 
"  But  I  have  no  friends." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  177 

''No!**  with  again  that  dry  little  laugh.  "Perhaps  they 
will  be  provided  at  the  proper  time,  as  Elijah  was  fed  by  the 
ravens.  Some  fine  night — who  knows — I  may  sit  with  my 
violin  in  the  orchestra  at  your  benefit,  and  one  of  the  bouquets 
with  which  you  are  smothered  may  fall  at  my  feet  and  bring 
me  aus  der  Fuge.  When  that  happens,  will  you  forgive  me  if 
I  break  a  rose  from  the  bouquet  before  I  toss  it  on  to  the  feet 
of  its  rightful  owner?  I  promise  that  I  will  seek  for  no  note, 
nor  spy  out  any  ring  or  bracelet.  I  will  only  keep  the  rose  in 
remembrance  of  the  night  when  I  skated  with  you  across  the 
Schwanenspiegel,  and  prophesied  unto  you  the  future.  It 
will  be  a  kind  of  '  I  told  you  so,'  on  my  part." 

Mock  sentiment,  mock  respect,  mock  admiration;  a  sneer 
in  the  voice,  a  dry  sarcasm  in  the  words.  What  was  I  to 
think?  Why  did  he  veer  round  in  this  way,  and  from  pro- 
tecting kindness  return  to  a  raillery  which  was  more  cruel 
than  his  silence?  My  blood  rose,  though,  at  the  mockingness 
of  his  tone. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  I  coldly.  "  I  am 
studying  operatic  music.  If  I  have  any  success  in  that  line, 
I  shall  devote  myself  to  it.  What  is  there  wrong  in  it?  The 
person  who  has  her  living  to  gain  must  use  the  talents  that 
have  been  given  her.  My  talent  is  my  voice;  it  is  the  only 
thing  I  have — except,  perhaps,  some  capacity  to  love — those 
— who  are  kind  to  me.  I  can  do  that,  thank  God!  Beyond 
that  I  have  nothing,  and  I  did  not  make  myself." 

"  A  capacity  to  love  those  who  are  kind  to  you,"  he  said 
hastil3^     "  And  do  you  love  all  who  are  kind  to  you?  " 

'•'  Yes,"  said  I  stoutly,  though  I  felt  my  face  burning. 

"  And  hate  them  that  despitefully  use  you?  " 

"  Naturally,"  I  said  with  a  somewhat  unsteady  laugh.  A 
rush  of  my  ruling  feeling — propriety  and  decent  reserve — 
tied  my  tongue,  and  I  could  not  say,  "  Not  all — not  always." 

He,  however,  snapped,  as  it  were,  at  my  remark  or  admis- 
sion, and  chose  to  take  it  as  if  it  were  in  the  deepest  earnest; 
for  he  said  quickly,  decisively,  and,  as  I  thought,  with  a  kind 
of  exultation: 

"  Ah!  then  I  will  be  disagreeable  to  you." 

This  remark,  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered,  came 
upon  me  with  a  shock  which  I  cannot  express.  He  would  be 
disagreeable  to  me  because  I  hated  those  who  were  disagree- 
able to  me,  ergo  he  wished  me  to  hate  him.  But  why?  What 
was  the  meaning  of  the  whole  extraordinary  proceeding? 


17  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Why?  "  I  asked  mechanically,  and  asked  nothing  more. 

"  Because  then  you  will  hate  me,  unless  you  have  the  good 
sense  to  do  so  already." 

"  "Why?     What  effect  will  my  hatred  have  upon  you?  " 

"  Kone.  Not  a  jot.  Gar  Jceine.  But  I  wish  you  to  hate 
me,  nevertheless." 

"  So  you  have  begun  to  be  disagreeable  to  me  by  pull- 
ing me  out  of  the  water,  lending  me  your  coat,  and  giving 
me  your  arm  all  along  this  hard,  lonely  road,"  said  I  com- 
posedly. 

He  laughed. 

"  That  was  before  I  knew  of  your  peculiarity.  From  to- 
morrow morning  on  I  shall  begin.  I  will  make  you  hate  me. 
I  shall  be  glad  if  you  hate  me." 

I  said  nothing.  My  head  felt  bevdldered;  my  under- 
standing benumbed.  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  very  weary 
, — conscious  that  I  should  like  to  cry,  so  bitter  was  my  dis- 
appointment. 

As  we  came  within  the  town,  I  said: 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Herr  Courvoisier,  to  have  given  you  so 
much  trouble." 

"  That  means  that  I  am  to  put  you  into  a  cab  and  reheve 
you  of  my  company." 

"  It  does  not,"  I  ejaculated  passionately,  jerking  my  hand 
from  his  arm.  "How  can  you  say  so?  How  dare  you 
say  so?" 

"  You  might  meet  some  of  your  friends,  you  know." 

"  And  I  tell  you  I  have  no  friends  except  Herr  von 
Trancius,  and  I  am  not  accountable  to  him  for  my  actions." 

"  We  shall  soon  be  at  your  house  now." 

^'Herr  Courvoisier,  have  you  forgiven  me?'* 

"  Forgiven  you  what?  " 

"  My  rudeness  to  you  once." 

"  Ah,  mein  Frdulein,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
a  little  and  smiling  slightly,  "  you  are  under  a  delusion  about 
that  circumstance.  How  can  I  forgive  that  which  I  never 
resented?  " 

Tliis  was  putting  the  matter  in  a  new,  and,  for  me,  an 
humbling  light. 

"  Never  resented!  "  I  murmured  confusedly. 

*'  Never.  Why  should  I  resent  it?  I  forgot  myself,  nicJit 
walir!  and  you  showed  me  at  one  and  the  same  time  my 
proper  place  and  your  own  excellent  good  sense.    You  did  not 


THE  FIRST  VlOZm.  179 

wish  to  know  me,  and  I  did  not  resent  it.  I  had  no  right  to 
resent  it." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  I,  my  voice  vibrating  against  my  will; 
"you  are  wrong  there,  and  either  you  are  purposely  saying 
what  is  not  true,  or  you  have  not  the  feelings  of  a  gentle- 
man." His  arm  sprung  a  little  aside  as  I  went  on,  amazed  a; 
my  own  boldness.  "  I  did  not  show  you  your  '  proper  place/ 
I  did  not  show  my  own  good  sense.  I  showed  my  ignorance, 
vanity,  and  surprise.  If  you  do  not  know  that,  you  are  not 
what  I  take  you  for — a  gentleman." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  he,  after  a  pause.  "  You  certainly  did 
not  take  me  for  one  then.  Why  should  I  be  a  gentleman? 
What  makes  you  suppose  I  am  one  ?  " 

Questions  which,  however  satisfactorily  I  might  answer 
them  to  myself,  I  could  not  well  reply  to  in  words.  I  felt 
that  I  had  rushed  upon  a  topic  which  could  not  be  explained, 
since  he  would  not  own  himself  offended.  I  had  made  a  fool 
of  myself  and  gained  nothing  by  it.  While  I  was  racking  my 
brain  for  some  satisfactory  closing  remark,  we  turned  a  corner 
and  came  into  the  Wehrhahn.     A  clock  struck  seven. 

"  Gott  im  Ilimmel!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Seven  o'clock!  The 
opera — da  geJifs  schon  an!  Excuse  me,  Fraulein,  I  must  go. 
Ah,  here  is  your  house." 

He  took  the  coat  gently  from  my  shoulders,  wished  me  gute 
hesserung,  and  ringing  the  bell,  made  me  a  profound  bow,  and 
either  not  noticing  or  not  choosing  to  notice  the  hand  which 
I  stretched  out  toward  him,  strode  off  hastily  toward  the 
theater,  leaving  me  cold,  sick,  and  miserable,  to  digest  my 
humble  pie  with  what  appetite  I  might. 


CHAPTER  III. 

GUI    BONO? 

Christmas  morning.  And  how  cheerfully  I  spent  it!  I 
tried  first  of  all  to  forget  that  it  was  Christmas  and  only  suc- 
ceeded in  impressing  the  fact  more  forcibly  and  vividly  upon 
my  mind,  and  with  it  others;  the  fact  that  I  was  alone  espe- 
cially predominating.  And  a  German  Christmas  is  not  the 
kind  of  thing  to  let  a  lonely  person  forget  his  lonehness  in; 
its  very  bustle  and  union  serve  to  emphasize  their  solitude  to 
solitary  people. 


480  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIIT. 

I  had  seen  such  quantities  of  Christmas  trees  go  past  the 
day  before.  One  to  every  house  in  the  neighborhood.  One 
had  even  come  here,  and  the  widow  of  the  piano-tuner  had 
hung  it  with  lights  and  invited  some  children  to  make  merry 
f  )r  the  feast  of  Weihnachten  Abend. 

Everyone  had  a  present  except  me.  Everyone  had  some- 
one with  whom  to  spend  their  Christmas — except  me.  A 
little  tiny  Christmas  tree  had  gone  to  the  rooms  whose  win- 
dows faced  mine.  I  had  watched  its  arrival;  for  once  I  had 
broken  through  my  rule  of  not  deliberately  watching  my 
neighbors,  and  had  done  so.  The  tree  arrived  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  kept  a  profound  mystery  from  Sigmund, 
who  was  relegated,  much  to  his  disgust,  to  the  society  of  Frau 
Schmidt  downstairs,  who  kept  a  vigilant  watch  upon  him  and 
would  not  let  him  go  upstairs  on  any  account. 

The  afternoon  gradually  darkened  down.  My  landlady  in- 
vited me  to  Join  her  party  downstairs;  I  declined.  The 
rapturous,  untutored  joy  of  half  a  dozen  children  had  no 
attraction  for  me;  the  hermit-like  watching  of  the  scene  over 
the  way  had.  I  did  not  light  my  lamp.  I  was  secure  of  not 
being  disturbed;  for  Frau  Lutzler,  when  I  would  not  come  to 
her,  had  sent  my  supper  upstairs,  and  said  she  would  not  be 
able  to  come  to  me  again  that  evening. 

"  So  much  the  better! "  I  murmured,  and  put  myself  in  a 
window  corner. 

The  lights  over  the  way  were  presently  lighted.  For  a 
moment  I  trembled  lest  the  blinds  were  going  to  be  put  down, 
and  all  my  chance  of  spying  spoiled.  But  no;  my  neighbors 
were  careless  fellows — not  given  to  watching  their  neighbors 
themselves  nor  to  suspecting  other  people  of  it.  The  bhnds 
were  left  up,  and  I  was  free  to  observe  all  that  passed. 

Toward  half-past  five  I  saw  by  the  Ught  of  the  street-lamp, 
which  was  just  opposite,  two  people  come  into  the  house;  a 
young  man  who  held  the  hand  of  a  little  girl.  The  yoimg 
man  was  Karl  Linders,  the  violoncellist;  the  little  girl,  I  sup- 
posed, must  be  his  sister.  They  went  upstairs,  or  rather  Karl 
went  upstairs;  his  little  sister  remained  below. 

There  was  a  great  shaking  of  hands  and  some  laughing 
when  Karl  came  into  the  room.  He  produced  various  pack- 
ages which  were  opened,  their  contents  criticised,  and  hung 
upon  the  tree.  Then  the  three  men  surveyed  their  handi- 
work with  much  satisfaction.    I  could  see  the  whole  scena 


TEE  FIBST  riOZm.  181 

They  could  not  see  my  watching  face  pressed  against  the  win- 
dow, for  they  were  in  light  and  I  was  in  darkness. 

Friedhelm  went  out  of  the  room,  and,  I  suppose,  exerted 
his  lungs  from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  for  he  came  back,  flushed 
and  laughing,  and  presently  the  door  opened,  and  Frau 
Schmidt,  looking  like  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  entered, 
holding  a  child  by  each  hand.  She  never  moved  a  muscle. 
She  held  a  hand  of  each,  and  looked  alternately  at  them. 
Breathless,  I  watched.  It  was  almost  as  exciting  as  if  I  had 
been  joining  in  the  play — more  so,  for  to  me  everything  was 
sur  Vimprevu — revealed  piecemeal,  while  to  them  some  degree 
of  foreknowledge  must  exist,  to  deprive  the  ceremony  of  some 
of  its  charms. 

There  was  awed  silence  for  a  time.  It  was  a  pretty  scene. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  wooden  table;  upon  it  the  small 
green  fir,  covered  with  little  twinkling  tapers;  the  orthodox 
waxen  angels,  and  strings  of  balls  and  bonbons  hanging  about 
■ — the  white  Christ-kind  at  the  top  in  the  arms  of  Father 
Christmas.  The  three  men  standing  in  a  semicircle  at  one 
fide;  how  well  I  could  see  them!  A  suppressed  smile  upon 
Eugen's  face,  such  as  it  always  wore  when  pleasing  other 
people.  Friedhelm  not  allowing  the  smile  to  fully  appear 
upon  his  countenance,  but  with  a  grave  delight  upon  his  face, 
und  with  great  satisfaction  beaming  from  his  luminous  brown 
eyes.  Karl  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  an  attitude  by 
which  I  knew  he  said,  "  There!  what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 
Frau  Schmidt  and  the  two  children  on  the  other  side. 

The  tree  was  not  a  big  one.  The  wax-lights  were  probably 
cheap  ones;  the  gifts  that  hung  upon  the  boughs  or  lay  on 
the  table  must  have  been  measured  by  the  available  funds  of 
three  poor  musicians.  But  the  whole  affair  did  its  mission 
admirably — even  more  effectively  than  an  official  commission 
to  (let  us  say)  inquire  into  the  cause  of  the  loss  of  an  ironclad. 
It— the  tree  I  mean,  not  the  commission — was  intended  to 
excite  joy  and  delight,  and  it  did  excite  them  to  a  very  high 
extent.  It  was  meant  to  produce  astonishment  in  unsophisti- 
cat;ed  minds — it  did  that  too,  and  here  it  has  a  point  in  com- 
mon with  the  proceedings  of  the  commission  respectfully 
alluded  to. 

The  little  girl,  who  was  a  head  taller  than  Sigmund,  had 
quantities  of  flaxen  hair  plaited  in  a  pigtail  and  tied  with 
light  ILV^e  ribbon — new;  and  a  sweet  face  which  was  a  soft- 


182  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

ened  girl  miniature  of  her  brother's.  She  jumped  for  joy, 
and  eyed  the  tree  and  the  bonbons,  and  everything  else  with 
irrepressible  rapture.  Sigmund  was  not  given  to  effusive 
declaration  of  his  emotion,  but  after  gazing  long  and  solemnly 
at  the  show,  his  eyes  turned  to  his  father,  and  the  two  smiled 
in  the  odd  manner  they  had,  as  if  at  some  private  understand- 
ing existing  between  themselves.  Then  the  festivities  were 
considered  inaugurated. 

Friedhelm  Helfen  took  the  rest  of  the  proceedings  into  his 
own  hands;  and  distributed  the  presents  exactly  as  if  he  had 
found  them  all  growing  on  the  tree,  and  had  not  the  least  idea 
what  they  were  nor  whence  they  came.  A  doll  which  fell  to 
the  share  of  the  little  Gretchen  was  from  Sigmund,  as  I  found 
from  the  lively  demonstrations  that  took  place.  Gretchen 
kissed  Mm,  at  which  everyone  laughed,  and  made  him  kiss  the 
doll,  or  receive  a  kiss  from  it — a  waxy  salute  which  did  not 
seem  to  cause  him  much  enthusiasm. 

I  could  not  see  what  the  other  things  were,  only  it  was  evi- 
dent that  everyone  gave  everyone  else  something,  and  Frau 
Schmidt's  face  relaxed  into  a  stem  smile  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, as  the  young  men  presented  her  one  after  the  other 
with  some  offering,  accompanied  with  speeches  and  bows  and 
ceremony.  A  conspicuous  parcel  done  up  in  white  paper  was 
left  to  the  last.  Then  Friedhelm  took  it  up,  and  apparently 
made  a  long  harangue,  for  the  company — especially  Karl  Lin- 
ders — became  attentive.  I  saw  a  convulsive  smile  twitch 
Eugen's  lips  new  and  then,  as  the  oration  proceeded.  Karl 
by  and  by  grew  even  solemn,  and  it  was  with  an  almost  awe- 
struck glance  that  he  at  last  received  the  parcel  from  Fried- 
helm's  hands,  who  gave  it  as  if  he  were  bestowing  his  blessing. 

Great  gravity,  eager  attention  on  the  part  of  the  children, 
who  pressed  up  to  him  as  he  opened  it;  then  the  last  wrapper 
was  torn  off,  and  to  my  utter  amazement  and  bewilderment 
Karl  drew  forth  a  white  woolly  animal  of  indefinite  race,  on 
a  green  stand.  The  look  which  crossed  his  face  was  in- 
describable; the  shout  of  laughter  which  greeted  the  discovery 
penetrated  even  to  my  ears. 

With  my  face  pressed  against  the  window  I  watched:  it 
was  really  too  interesting.  But  my  spying  was  put  an  end 
to.  A  speech  appeared  to  be  made  to  Frau  Schmidt,  to  which 
she  answered  by  a  frosty  smile  and  an  elaborate  courtesy. 
She  was  apparently  saying  good-night,  but,  with  the  instinct 
of  a  housekeqper.  set  a  few  chairs  straight,  pulled  a  table- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  183 

cloth,  and  pushed  a  footstool  to  its  place,  and  in  her  tour 
around  the  room  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  windows.  She  came 
and  put  the  shutters  to.  In  one  moment  it  had  all  Hashed 
from  my  sight — tree  and  faces  and  lamplight  and  brightness. 

I  raised  my  chin  from  my  hands  and  found  that  I  was 
cold,  numb,  and  stiff.  I  lighted  the  lamp  and  passed  my 
hands  over  my  eyes;  but  could  not  quite  find  myself,  and, 
instead  of  getting  to  some  occupation  of  my  own,  I  sat  with 
Eichter's  "  Thorough  Bass  and  Harmony  "  before  me  and  a 
pen  in  my  hand,  and  wondered  what  they  were  doing  now. 

It  was  with  the  remembrance  of  this  evening  in  my  mind 
to  emphasize  my  loneliness  that  I  woke  on  Christmas 
morning. 

At  post-time  my  landlady  brought  me  a  letter,  scented, 
monogrammed,  with  the  Eoman  postmark.     Adelaide  wrote: 

"  I  won't  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas.  I  think  it  is  such 
nonsense.  Who  does  have  a  merry  Christmas  now,  except 
children  and  paupers?  And,  all  being  well — or  rather  ill, 
80  far  as  I  am  concerned — we  shall  meet  before  long.  We 
are  coming  to  Elberthal.  I  will  tell  you  why  when  we  meet. 
It  is  too  long  to  write — and  too  vexatious"  (this  word  was 
half  erased),  "  troublesome.  I  will  let  you  know  when  we 
come,  and  our  address.     How  are  you  getting  on? 

"  Adelaide." 

I  was  much  puzzled  with  this  letter  and  meditated  long 
over  it.  Something  lay  in  the  background.  Adelaide  was 
not  happy.  It  surely  could  not  be  that  Sir  Peter  gave  her 
any  cause  for  discomfort.  Impossible!  Did  he  not  dote' 
upon  her?  Was  not  the  being  able  to  "  turn  him  around 
her  finger  "  one  of  the  principal  advantages  of  her  marriage? 
And  yet,  that  she  should  be  coming  to  Elberthal  of  her  own 
will  was  an  idea  which  my  understanding  declined  to  accept. 
She  must  have  been  compelled  to  it — and  by  nothing  pleasant. 
This  threw  another  shadow  over  my  spirit. 

Going  to  the  window  I  saw  again  how  lonely  I  was.  The 
people  were  passing  in  groups  and  throngs;  it  was  Christmas 
time;  they  were  glad.  They  had  nothing  in  common  with 
me.  I  looked  inside  my  room — bare,  meager  chamber  that 
it  was — the  piano  the  only  thing  in  it  that  was  more  than 
barely  necessary,  and  a  great  wonder  came  over  me. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  it  all?    What  is  the  use  of  workin;; 


184  TEE  FIRST  YIOLIN. 

hard?  "Why  am  I  leading  this  life?  To  earn  money,  and 
perhaps  applause — some  time.  Well,  and  when  I  have  got 
it — even  supposing,  which  is  extremely  improbable,  that  I 
win  it  while  I  am  young  and  can  enjoy  it — what  good  will 
it  do  me?  I  don't  believe  it  will  make  me  very  happy.  I 
don't  know  that  I  long  for  it  very  much.  I  don't  know  why 
I  am  working  for  it,  except  because  Herr  von  Francius  has 
a  stronger  will  than  I  have  and  rather  compels  me  to  it. 
Otherwise 

"'  Well,  what  should  I  hke?  What  do  I  wish  for?  "  At 
the  moment  I  seemed  to  feel  myself  free  from  all  prejudice 
and  all  influence,  and  surveying  with  a  calm,  impartial  eye 
possibilities  and  prospects.  I  could  not  discover  that  there 
was  anything  I  particularly  wished  for.  Had  something 
within  me  changed  during  the  last  night? 

I  had  been  so  eager  before;  I  felt  so  apathetic  now.  I 
looked  across  the  way.  I  dimly  saw  Courvoisier  snatch  up 
hi?  boy,  hold  him  in  the  air,  and  then,  gathering  him  to  him, 
cover  him  with  kisses.  I  smiled.  At  the  moment  I  felt 
neutral — experienced  neither  pleasure  nor  pain  from  the 
sight.  I  had  loved  the  man  so  eagerly  and  intensely — with 
such  warmth,  fervor,  and  humility.  It  seemed  as  if  now 
a  pause  had  come  (only  for  a  time,  I  knew,  but  still  a  pause) 
in  the  warm  current  of  delusion,  and  I  contemplated  facts 
with  a  dry,  unmoved  eye.  After  all — what  was  he?  A  man 
who  seemed  quite  content  with  his  station — not  a  particularly 
good  or  noble  man  that  I  could  see,  with  some  musical  talent 
which  he  turned  to  account  to  earn  his  bread.  He  had  a  fine 
figure,  a  handsome  face,  a  winning  smile,  plenty  of  presence 
of  mind,  and  an  excellent  opinion  of  himself. 

Stay!  Let  me  be  fair.  He  had  only  asserted  his  right  to 
be  treated  as  a  gentleman  by  one  whom  he  had  treated  in 
every  respect  as  a  lady.  He  did  not  want  me — nor  to  know 
anything  about  me — else  why  could  he  laugh  for  very  glee 
as  his  boy's  eyes  met  his?  Want  me?  No!  he  was  rich 
already.  What  he  had  was  sufficient  for  him,  and  no  wonder, 
I  thought,  with  a  jealous  pang. 

Who  could  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  grown-up 
people,  with  their  larger  selfishnesses,  more  developed  self- 
seeking — robust  jealousies  and  full-grown  exactions  and 
sophistications,  when  they  had  a  beautiful  little  one  like  that? 
A  child  of  one's  own — not  any  child,  but  that  very  child 
to  love  in  that  ideal  way.    It  was  a  relation  that  one  scarcely 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  185 

eees  out  of  a  romance.    It  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  I 
ever  saw. 

His  life  was  sufficient  to  him.  He  did  not  suffer  as  I  had 
been  suffering.  Suppose  someone  were  to  offer  him  a  better 
post  than  that  he  now  had.  He  would  be  glad  and  would 
take  it  without  a  scruple.  Perhaps,  for  a  little  while,  some 
casual  thought  of  me  might  now  and  then  cross  his  mind — 
but  not  for  long;  certainly  in  no  importunate  or  troublesome 
manner.  While  I — why  was  I  there,  if  not  for  his  sake? 
What,  when  I  accepted  the  proposal  of  Von  Francius,  had 
been  my  chief  thought?  It  had  been,  though  all  unspoken, 
scarcely  acknowledged — yet  a  whispered  force — "  I  shall  not 
lose  sight  of  him — of  Eugen  Courvoisier."  I  was  rightly 
punished. 

I  felt  no  great  pain  just  now  in  thinking  of  this.  I  saw 
myself,  and  judged  myself,  and  remembered  how  Faust  had 
said  once,  in  an  immortal  passage,  half  to  himself,  half  to 
Mephisto: 

"  Entbehren  sollst  du  ;  sollst  entbehren." 

And  that  read  both  ways,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
*'  Entbehren  sollst  du  ;  sollst  entbehren." 

It  flitted  rhythmically  through  my  mind  on  this  dreamful 
morning,  when  I  seemed  a  stranger  to  myself,  or,  rather, 
when  I  seemed  to  stand  outside  myself  and  contemplate, 
calmly  and  judicially,  the  heart  which  had  of  late  beaten 
and  throbbed  with  such  vivid  and  such  unreasoning,  uncon- 
nected pangs.  It  is  as  painful  and  as  humiliating  a  descrip- 
tion of  self-vivisection  as  there  is,  and  one  not  without  its 
peculiar  merits. 

The  end  of  my  reflections  was  the  same  as  that  which  is, 
I  believe,  often  arrived  at  by  the  talented  class  called  philoso- 
phers, who  spend  much  learning  and  science  in  going  into 
the  questions  about  whose  skirts  I  skimmed;  many  of  them, 
like  me,  after  summing  up,  say,  Cui  bono? 

So  passed  the  morning,  and  the  gray  cloud  still  hung  over 
my  spirits.  My  landlady  brought  me  a  slice  of  Kuchen  at 
dinner  time,  for  Christmas,  and  wished  me  guten  Appetit  to 
it,  for  which  I  thanked  her  with  gravity. 

In  the  afternoon  I  turned  to  the  piano.  After  all  it  wa5j 
Christmas  daj.    After  beginning  a  bravura  singing  exercise, 


186  THE  FIRST  VlOZm. 

I  suddenly  stopped  myself,  and  found  myself,  before  I  knew' 
what  I  was  about,  singing  the  "  Adeste  Fideles  " — till  I  coiild^ 
not  sing  any  more.  Something  rose  in  my  throat.  Ceasing 
abruptly,  I  burst  into  tears  and  cried  plentifully  over  the 
piano  keys. 

"  In  tears,  Fraulein  May.     Aher — what  does  that  mean?  " 

I  looked  up.  Von  Francius  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking 
not  unkindly  at  me,  with  a  bouquet  in  his  hand  of  Christmas 
roses  and  ferns. 

"  It  is  only  because  it  is  Christmas,"  said  I. 

"  Are  you  quite  alone?  " 

«  Yes." 

«  So  am  I." 

"  Yen!     But  you  have  so  many  friends." 

"  Have  I  ?  It  is  true  that,  if  friends  count  by  the  number 
of  invitations  that  one  has,  I  have  many.  Unfortunately, 
I  could  not  mal^e  up  my  mind  to  accept  any.  As  I  passed 
through  the  flower  market  this  morning  I  thought  of  you — 
naturall3\  It  struck  me  that  perhaps  you  had  no  one  to  come 
and  wish  you  the  Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New  Year 
which  belongs  to  you  of  right,  so  I  came,  and  have  the  pleas- 
ure to  wish  it  you  now,  with  these  flowers,  though  truly 
they  are  not  Maiblumchen." 

He  raised  my  hand  to  his  lips,  and  I  was  quite  amazed  at 
the  sense  of  strength,  healthiness,  and  new  life  which  his 
presence  brought. 

"  I  am  very  foolish,"  I  remarked;  "  I  ought  to  know  better. 
But  I  am  unhappy  about  my  sister,  and  also  I  have  been  fool- 
ishly thinking  of  old  times,  when  she  and  I  were  at  home 
together." 

"  Ei!  That  is  foolish.  Those  things — old  times  and  all 
that — are  the  very  deuce  for  making  one  miserable.  Strauss 
— he  who  writes  dance  music — has  made  a  waltz  and  called 
it  '  The  Good  Old  Times.'  Lieber  Himmel!  Fancy  waltzing 
to  the  memory  of  old  times.  A  requiem  or  a  funeral  march 
would  have  been  intelligible." 

"  Yes." 

"  "Well,  you  must  not  sit  here  and  let  these  old  times  say 
what  they  like  to  you.     Will  you  come  out  with  me?  " 

"  Go  out!  "  I  echoed,  with  an  unwilling  shrinking  from  it. 
My  soul  preferred  rather  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  case  and 
turn  surlily  away  from  the  light  outside.  But,  as  usual,  he 
had  his  way. 


TEE  FIB8T  VIOLm.  187 

''Yes — out.  The  two  loneliest  people  in  Elberthal  will 
make  a  little  zauberfest  for  themselves.  I  will  show  you 
some  pictures.  There  are  some  new  ones  at  the  exhibition. 
Make  haste!  " 

So  calm,  so  matter-of-fact  was  his  manner,  so  indisputable 
did  he  seem  to  think  his  proposition,  that  I  half  rose;  then 
I  sat  down  again. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  out,  Herr  von  Francius." 

"  That  is  foolish.  Quick!  before  the  daylight  fades  and 
it  grows  too  dark  for  the  pictures." 

Scarcely  knowing  why  I  complied  I  went  to  my  room  aiid 
put  on  my  things.  What  a  shabby  sight  I  looked!  I  felt  it 
keenly;  so  much  that,  when  I  came  back  and  found  him  seated 
at  the  piano,  and  playing  a  wonderful  in-and-out  fugue  of 
immense  learning  and  immense  difficulty,  and  quite  without 
pathos  or  tenderness,  I  interrupted  him  incontinently. 

"  Here  I  am,  Herr  von  Francius.  You  have  asked  the 
most  shabbily  dressed  person  in  Elberthal  to  be  your  com- 
panion. I  have  a  mind  to  make  you  hold  to  your  bargain, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

Von  Francius  turned,  surveying  me  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  smile.  All  the  pedagogue  was  put  off.  It  was  holiday 
time.  I  was  half  vexed  at  myself  for  beginning  to  feel  as 
if  it  were  holiday  with  me,  too. 

We  went  out  together.  The  wind  was  raw  and  cold,  the 
day  dreary,  the  streets  not  so  full  as  they  had  been.  We 
went  along  the  street  past  the  Tonhalle,  and  there  we  met 
Courvoisier  alone.  He  looked  at  us,  but  though  Von  Fran- 
cius raised  his  hat  he  did  not  notice  us.  There  was  a  pallid 
change  upon  his  face,  a  fixed  look  in  his  eyes,  a  strange, 
drawn,  subdued  expression  upon  his  whole  countenance.  My 
heart  leaped  with  an  answering  pang.  That  mood  of  the 
morning  had  fled.  I  had  "found  myself  again,"  but  again 
not  "  happily." 

I  followed  Von  Francius  up  the  stairs  of  the  picture  ex- 
hibition. No  one  was  in  the  room.  All  the  world  had  other 
occupations  on  Christmas  afternoon,  or  preferred  the  stove^ 
side  and  the  family  circle. 

Von  Francius  showed  me  a  picture  which  he  said  every- 
one was  talking  about. 

"  Why?  "  I  inquired,  when  I  had  contemplated  it  and  failed 
to  find  it  lovely. 

"The  drawing,  the  grouping  are  admirable,  as  you  must 


188  THE  FIEST  VIOLIK 

see.  The  art  displayed  is  wonderful.  I  find  the  picture 
excellent." 

"  But  the  subject?  "  said  I. 

It  wa^  not  a  large  picture,  and  represented  the  interior  of 
an  artist's  atelier.  In  the  foreground  a  dissipated-looking 
young  man  tilted  his  chair  backward  as  he  held  his  glovea 
in  one  hand  and  with  the  other  stroked  his  mustache,  wliile 
he  contemplated  a  picture  standing  on  an  easel  before  him. 
The  face  was  hard,  worn,  hlase;  the  features,  originally  good, 
and  even  beautiful,  had  had  all  the  latent  loveliness  worn 
out  of  them  by  a  wrong,  unbeautiful  life.  i-Ie  wore  a  tall 
hat,  very  much  to  one  side,  as  if  to  accent  the  fact  that  the 
rest  of  the  company,  upon  whom  he  had  turned  his  back, 
certainly  did  not  merit  that  he  should  be  at  the  trouble  of 
baring  his  head  to  them.  And  the  rest  of  the  company — a 
girl,  a  model,  seated  on  a  chair  upon  a  raised  dais,  dressed  in 
a  long,  flounced  white  skirt,  not  of  the  freshest,  some  kind  of 
Oriental  wrap  falling  negligently  about  it — arms,  models  of 
shapeliness,  folded,  and  she  crouching  herself  together  as  if 
wearied,  or  contemptuous,  or  perhaps  a  little  chilly.  Upon 
a  divan  near  her  a  man — presumably  the  artist  to  whom  the 
establishment  pertained — stretched  at  full  length,  looking  up 
carelessly  into  her  face,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  with  indifference 
and — scarcely  impertinence — it  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
be  a  fully  developed  impertinence — in  every  gesture.  This 
was  the  picture;  faithful  to  Ufe,  significant  in  its  very  insig- 
nificance, before  which  Von  Francius  sat  and  declared  that 
the  drawing,  coloring,  and  grouping  were  perfect.* 

"  The  subject  ?  "  he  echoed,  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  only 
a  scrap  of  artist  life." 

"Is  that  artist  life?"  said  I,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 
"  I  do  not  like  it  at  all;  it  is  common,  low,  vulgar.  There 
is  no  romance  about  it;  it  only  reminds  one  of  stale  tobacco 
and  flat  champagne." 

"  You  are  too  particular,"  said  Von  Francius,  after  a  pause, 
and  with  a  flavor  of  some  feeling  which  I  did  not  quite  under- 
stand tincturing  his  voice. 

For  my  part  I  was  looking  at  the  picture  and  thinking 
of  what  Courvoisier  had  said:  "  Beautj'-,  impudence,  assur- 
ance, and  an  admiring  public."  The  girl  was  beautiful 
— at  least,  she  had  the  battered  remains  of  a  decided  beautyj 

*  The  original  ia  by  Charles  Herman  of  Brussels. 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  189 

she  had  impuflence  certainly,  and  assurance,  too,  and  an 
admiring  public,  I  supposed,  which  testified  its  admiration 
by  lolling  on  a  couch  £ind  staring  at  her,  or  keeping  its  hat 
on  and  turning  its  back  to  her. 

"Do  you  really  admire  the  picture,  Herr  von  Francius?'* 
I  inquired. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  It  is  so  admirably  true.  That  is  the  kind 
of  life  intii  x;'hicli  I  was  born,  and  in  which  I  was  for  a  long 
time  brought  up;  but  I  escaped  from  it." 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  It  seemed  so  extraordi- 
nary that  that  model  of  reticence  should  speak  to  me,  above 
all,  about  himself.  It  struck  me  for  the  very  first  time  that 
no  one  ever  spoke  of  Von  Francius  as  if  he  had  anyone 
belonging  to  him.  Calm,  cold,  lonely,  self-sufficing — and 
self-sufficing,  too,  because  he  must  be  so,  because  he  had  none 
other  to  whom  to  mm — that  was  his  character,  tnd  viewing 
him  in  that  manner  I  had  always  judged  him.  But  what 
might  the  truth  be? 

"Were  you  not  happy  when  you  were  young?"  I  asked, 
on  a  quick  impulse. 

"  Happy!  Who  expects  to  be  happy?  If  I  had  been  sim- 
ply not  miserable  I  should  have  counted  my  childhood  a  good 
one;  but '- 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on: 

"  Your  great  novelist,  Dickens,  had  a  poor,  sordid  kind 
of  childhood  in  outward  circumstances.  But  niine  was  spirit- 
ually sordid — hideous,  repulsive.  There  are  some  plants 
which  spring  from  and  flourish  in  mud  and  slime;  they  are 
but  a  flabby,  pestifpyous  growth,  as  you  may  suppose.  I  was, 
to  begin  witn,  a  human  specimen  of  that  kind;  I  was  in  an 
atmosphere  of  moral  mud,  an  intellectual  hot-bed.  I  don't 
know  what  there  was  in  me  that  set  me  against  the  life;  that 
I  never  can  tell.  It  was  a  sort  of  hell  on  earth  that  I  was 
living  in.  One  day  something  happened — I  was  twelve  years 
old  then — something  happened,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  my 
nature — its  good  and  its  evil,  its  energies  and  indolence,  its 
pride  and  humility — all  ran  together,  welded  by  the  furnace 
of  passion  into  one  furious,  white-hot  rage  of  anger  and  rebel- 
lion. In  an  instant  I  had  decided  my  course;  in  an  hour  I 
had  acted  upon  it.  I  am  an  odd  kind  of  fellow,  I  believe.  I 
quitted  that  scene  and  have  never  visited  it  since.  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  the  anger  I  then  felt  and  to  which  I  yielded. 
Twelve  years  old  I  was  then.    I  fought  hard  for  many  years; 


190  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

but,  mdn  FrduJein," — he  looked  at  me  and  paused  a  moment 
— "  that  was  the  first  occasion  upon  which  I  ever  was  really 
angry;  it  has  been  the  last.  I  have  never  felt  the  sensation 
of  anger  since — I  mean  personal  anger.  Artistic  anger  I  have 
known;  the  anger  at  bad  work,  at  false  interpretation,  at 
charlatanry  in  art;  but  I  have  never  been  angry  with  the  anger 
that  resents.  I  tell  you  this  as  a  curiosity  of  character.  With 
that  brief  flash  all  resentment  seemed  to  evaporate  from  me — 
to  exhaust  itself  in  one  brief,  resolute,  effective  attempt  at 
self-cleansing,  self-government." 

He  paused. 

"  Tell  me  more.  Heir  von  Francius,"  I  besought.  "  Do 
not  leave  off  there.     Afterward?  " 

"  You  really  care  to  hear?  Afterward  I  lived  through 
hardships  in  plenty;  but  I  had  effectually  severed  the  whole 
connection  with  that  which  dragged  me  down.  I  used  all 
my  will  to  rise.  I  am  not  boasting,  but  simply  stating  a 
peculiarity  of  my  temperament  when  I  tell  you  that  what  I 
determine  upon  I  always  accomplish.  I  determined  upon 
rising,  and  I  have  risen  to  what  I  am.  I  set  it,  or  something 
like  it,  before  me  as  my  goal,  and  I  have  attained  it." 

"  Well?  "  I  asked  with  some  eagerness;  for  I,  after  all  my 
■unfulfilled  strivings,  had  asked  myself,  Cui  bono  ?  "  And 
what  is  the  end  of  it?     Are  you  satisfied?  " 

"  How  quickly  and  how  easily  you  see! "  said  he  with 
a  smile.  "I  value  the  position  I  have,  in  a  certain  way — 
that  is,  I  see  the  advantage  it  gives  me,  and  the  influence. 
But  that  deep  inner  happiness,  which  lies  outside  of  condition 
and  circumstances — that  feeling  of  the  poet  in  'Faust' — 
d«n't  you  remember? 

"  '  I  nothing  had,  and  yet  enough' — 

all  that  is  unknown  to  me.     For  I  ask  myself,  Cui  bono?  " 

"  Like  me,"  I  could  not  help  saying. 

He  added: 

'*  Fraulein  May,  the  nearest  feeling  I  have  had  to  happiness 
has  been  the  knowing  you.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  a 
person  who  makes  joy?  " 

"  'No,  indeed,  I  did  not." 

"It  is  true,  though.  I  should  like,  if  you  do  not  mind 
— ^if  you  can  say  it  truly — to  hear  from  your  lips  that  you  look 
upon  me  as  your  friend." 

*'  Indeed,  Herr  von  Francius,  I  feel  you  my  very  best 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  191 

friend,  and  I  would  not  lose  your  regard  for  anything,"  I  was 
able  to  assure  him. 

And  then,  as  it  was  growing  dark,  the  woman  from  the 
receipt  of  custom  by  the  door  came  in  and  told  us  that  she 
must  close  the  rooms. 

We  got  up  and  went  out.  In  the  street  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  and  the  people  going  up  and  down. 

Von  Francius  left  me  at  the  door  of  my  lodgings. 

"  Good-evening,  liebes  Frdulein;  and  thank  you  for  your 
company  this  afternoon." 

A  light  burned  steadily  all  evening  in  the  sitting  room  of 
my  opposite  neighbors;  but  the  shutters  were  closed.  I  only 
saw  a  thin  stream  coming  through  a  chink. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

*'Es  ist  bestimmt,  in  Gottes  Rath, 
Dass  man  vom  Liebsten  was  man  hat 
Muss  scheiden," 

OuH  merry  little  zauberfest  of  Christmas  eve  was  over. 
Christmas  morning  came.  I  remember  that  morning  well 
— a  gray,  neutral  kind  of  day,  whose  monotony  outside  em- 
phasized the  keenness  of  emotion  within. 

On  that  morning  the  postman  came — a  rather  rare  occur- 
rence with  us;  for,  except  with  notes  from  pupils,  notices  of 
proben,  or  other  official  communications,  he  seldom  trou- 
bled us. 

It  was  Sigmund  who  opened  the  door;  it  was  he  who  took 
the  letter  and  wished  the  postman  "  good-morning  "  in  his 
courteous  little  way.  I  dare  say  that  the  incident  gave  an 
additional  pang  afterward  to  the  father,  if  he  marked  it,  and 
seldom  did  the  smallest  act  or  movement  of  his  child  escape 
him. 

"  Father,  here  is  a  letter,"  he  said,  giving  it  into  Eugen's 
hand. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  for  Friedel;  thou  art  too  ready  to  think 
that  everything  appertains  to  thy  father,"  said  Eugen  with 
a  smile,  as  he  took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it;  but  before  he 
had  finished  speaking  the  smile  had  faded.  There  remained 
a  whiteness,  a  blank,  a  haggardness. 


192  THE  FIRST  VlOim. 

I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  letter.  It  was  large,  square, 
massive,  and  there  was  a  seal  upon  the  envelope — a  regular 
letter  of  fate  out  of  a  romance. 

Eugen  took  it  into  his  hand,  and  for  once  he  made  no 
answer  to  the  caress  of  his  child,  who  put  his  arms  around 
his  neck  and  wanted  to  climb  upon  his  knee.  He  allowed 
the  action,  but  passively. 

"  Let  me  open  it!  "  cried  Sigmund.  "  Let  me  open  thy 
letter!  " 

"  No,  no,  child! "  said  Eugen  in  a  sharp,  pained  tone. 
"Let  it  alone!" 

Sigmund  looked  surprised  and  recoiled  a  little,  a  shock 
clouding  his  eyes.  It  was  all  right  if  his  father  said  no,  but 
a  shade  presently  crossed  his  young  face.  His  father  did  not 
usually  speak  so;  did  not  usually  have  that  white  and  pallid 
look  about  the  eyes — above  all,  did  not  look  at  his  son  with 
a  look  that  meant  nothing. 

Eugen  was  usually  prompt  enough  in  all  he  did,  but  he 
laid  aside  that  letter,  and  proposed  in  subdued  tone  that 
we  should  have  breakfast.  Which  we  had,  and  still  the 
letter  lay  unopened.  And  when  breakfast  was  over  he  even 
took  up  his  violin  and  played  runs  and  shakes  and  scales — 
and  the  air  of  a  drinking  song,  which  sounded  grotesque  in 
contrast  with  the  surroundings.  This  lasted  for  some  time, 
and  yet  the  letter  was  not  opened.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  open  it.  I  knew  that  it  was  with  a  desperate  effort  that 
he  at  last  took  it  up,  and — went  into  his  room  and  shut  the 
door. 

I  was  reading — ^that  is,  I  had  a  book  in  my  hands,  and  was 
stretched  out  in  the  full  luxury  of  an  unexpected  holiday 
upon  the  couch;  but  I  could  no  more  have  read  under  the  new 
influence,  could  no  more  have  helped  watching  Sigmund, 
than  I  could  help  breathing  and  feeling. 

He,  Sigmund,  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
closed  door,  gazing  at  it  as  if  he  expected  it  to  open  and 
a  loved  hand  to  beckon  him  within.  But  it  remained  pitilessly 
shut,  and  the  little  boy  had  to  accommodate  himself  as  well 
as  he  could  to  a  new  phase  in  his  mental  history — the  being 
excluded — left  out  in  the  cold.  After  making  an  impulsive 
step  toward  the  door  he  turned,  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  as  if  to  keep  them  from  attacking  the  handle  of  that 
closed  door,  and,  walking  to  the  window,  gazed  out,  silent  and 
motionless.    I  watched;  I  was  compelled  to  watch.    He  wa& 


TEE  FIRST  riOZm.  193 

listening  with  every  faculty,  every  fiber,  for  the  least  noise, 
the  faintest  movement  from  the  room  from  which  he  was 
shut  out.  I  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  him.  I  was  very  misera- 
ble myself;  and  a  sense  of  coming  loss  and  disaster  was  driven 
firmly  into  my  mind  and  fixed  there — a  heavy  prevision  of 
inevitable  sorrow  and  pain  overhung  my  mind.  I  turned 
to  znj  book  and  tried  to  read.  It  was  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful of  romances  that  I  held — no  other  than  "  Die  Kinder 
der  Welt " — and  the  scene  was  that  in  which  Edwin  and 
Toinette  make  that  delightful,  irregular  Sunday  excursion 
to  the  Charlottenburg,  but  I  understood  none  of  it.  With 
that  pathetic  little  real  figure  taking  up  so  much  of  my  con- 
sciousness, and  every  moment  more  insistently  so,  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else. 

Dead  silence  from  the  room  within;  utter  and  entire 
silence,  which  lasted  so  long  that  my  misery  grew  acute,  and 
still  that  little  figure,  which  was  now  growing  terrible  to  me, 
neither  spoke  nor  stirred.  I  do  not  know  how  long  by  the 
clock  we  remained  in  these  relative  positions;  by  my  feelings 
it  was  a  week;  by  those  of  Sigmund,  I  doubt  not,  a  hundred 
years.  But  he  turned  at  last,  and  with  a  face  from  which  all 
trace  of  color  had  fled  walked  slowly  toward  the  closed  door. 

"  Sigmund!  "  I  cried  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Come  here,  my 
child!     Stay  here,  with  me." 

"  I  must  go  in."  said  he.  He  did  not  knock.  He  opened 
the  door  softly  and  went  in,  closing  it  after  him.  I  know  not 
what  passed.  There  was  silence  as  deep  as  before,  after  one 
short,  inarticulate  murmur.  There  are  some  moments  in 
this  our  life  which  are  at  once  sacrificial,  sacramental,  and 
strong  with  the  virtue  of  absolution  for  sins  past;  moments 
which  are  a  crucible  from  which  a  stained  soul  may  come  out 
white  again.  Such  were  these — I  know  it  now — in  which 
father  and  son  were  alone  together. 

After  a  short  silence,  during  which  my  book  hung  unheeded 
from  my  hand,  I  left  the  house,  out  of  a  sort  of  respect  for 
my  two  friends.  I  had  nothing  particular  to  do,  and  so 
strolled  aimlessly  about,  first  into  the  Hofgarten,  where  I 
watched  the  Ehine,  and  looked  Hollandward  along  its  low, 
fiat  shores,  to  where  there  was  a  bend,  and  beyond  the  bend, 
Kaiserswerth.  It  is  now  long  since  I  saw  the  river.  Fair 
are  his  banks  higher  up — not  at  Elberthal  would  he  have 
struck  the  stranger  as  being  a  stream  for  which  to  fight  and 
die;  but  to  me  there  is  no  part  of  his  banks  so  lovely  as  the 


194  TEE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

poor  old  Sehone  Aussicht  in  the  Elberthal  Hofgarten,  from 
whence  I  have  watched  the  sun  set  flaming  over  the  broad 
water,  and  felt  my  heart  beat  to  the  sense  of  precious  posses- 
sions in  the  homely  town  behind.  Then  I  strolled  through 
the  town,  and  coming  down  the  Konigsallee,  beheld  some 
bustle  in  front  of  a  large,  imposing-looking  house,  which 
had  long  been  shut  up  and  uninhabited.  It  had  been  a  ven- 
ture by  a  too  shortly  successful  banker.  He  had  built  the 
house,  lived  in  it  three  months,  and  finding  himself  bank- 
rupt, had  one  morning  disposed  of  himself  by  cutting  his 
throat.  Since  then  the  house  had  been  closed,  and  had  had 
an  ill  name,  though  it  was  the  handsomest  building  in  the 
most  fashionable  part  of  the  town,  with  a  grand  porte-cocliere 
in  front,  and  a  pleasant,  enticing  kind  of  bowery  garden  be- 
hind— the  house  faced  the  Exerzierplatz,  and  was  on  the 
promenade  of  Elberthal.  A  fine  chestnut  avenue  made  the 
street  into  a  pleasant  wood,  and  yet  Konigsallee  No.  3  always 
looked  deserted  and  depressing.  I  paused  to  watch  the 
workmen  who  were  throwing  open  the  shutters  and  uncover- 
ing the  furniture.  There  were  some  women-servants  busy 
with  brush  and  duster  in  the  hall,  and  a  splendid  barouche 
was  being  pushed  through  the  porte-cochere  into  the  back 
premises;  a  couple  of  trim-looking  English  grooms  with  four 
horses  followed. 

"Is  someone  coming  to  live  here?"  I  demanded  of  a 
workman,  who  made  answer: 

"  Ja  wohl!  A  rich  English  milord  has  taken  the  house 
furnished  for  six  months — Sir  Le  Marchant,  oder  so  etwas. 
I  do  not  know  the  name  quite  correctly.  He  comes  in  a  few 
days." 

"  So ! "  said  I,  wondering  what  attraction  Elberthal  could 
offer  to  a  rich  English  sir  or  milord,  and  feeling  at  the  same 
time  a  mild  glow  of  curiosity  as  to  him  and  his  circumstances, 
for  I  humbly  confess  it — I  had  never  seen  an  authentic 
milord.  Elberthal  and  Koln  were  almost  the  extent  of  my 
travels,  and  I  only  remembered  that  at  the  Mederrheinisches 
Musikfest  last  year  someone  had  pointed  out  to  me  a  decrepit- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  a  bottle-nose  and  a  meaningless 
eye,  as  a  milord — very,  very  rich,  and  exceedingly  good.  I 
had  sorrowed  a  little  at  the  time  in  thinking  that  he  did  not 
personally  better  grace  his  circumstances  and  character,  but 
until  this  moment  I  had  never  thought  of  him  again. 

*'  That  is  his  secretary? "  pursued  the  workman  to  me  in  an 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  195 

under  tone,  as  lie  pointed  out  a  young  man  who  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  notebook  in  hand.  "Herr  Ark- 
wright.     He  is  looking  after  us." 

"When  does  the  Engldnder  come?" 

"  In  a  few  days,  with  his  servants  and  niilady,  and  milady's 
maid  and  dogs  and  bags  and  everything.  And  she — milady 
— is  to  have  those  rooms" — he  pointed  overhead,  and 
grinned — "  those  where  Banquier  Klein  was  found  with  his 
throat  cut.     He!" 

He  laughed,  and  began  to  sing  lustily,  "In  Berlin, 
sagt'  er." 

After  giving  one  more  short  survey  to  the  house,  and  won- 
dering why  the  apartments  of  a  suicide  should  be  assigned  to 
a  young  and  beautiful  woman  (for  I  instinctively  judged  her 
to  be  young  and  beautiful),  I  went  on  my  way,  and  my 
thoughts  soon  returned  to  Eugen  and  Sigmund,  and  that 
trouble  which  I  felt  was  hanging  inevitably  over  us. 

Eugen  was,  that  evening,  in  a  mood  of  utter,  cool  aloofness. 
His  trouble  did  not  appear  to  be  one  that  he  could  confide — 
at  present,  at  least.  He  took  up  his  violin  and  discoursed 
most  eloquent  music,  in  the  dark,  to  which  music  Sigmund 
and  I  listened.  Sigmund  sat  upon  my  knee,  and  Eugen  went 
on  playing — improvising,  or  rather  speaking  the  thoughts 
which  were  uppermost  in  his  heart.  It  was  wild,  strange, 
melancholy,  sometimes  sweet,  but  ever  with  a  ringing  note  of 
woe  so  piercing  as  to  stab,  recurring  perpetually — such  a  note 
as  comes  throbbing  to  hfe  now  and  then  in  the  *'  Sonate 
Pathetique,"  or  in  Kali's  Fifth  Symphony. 

Eugen  always  went  to  Sigmund  after  he  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  talked  to  him  or  listened  to  him.  I  do  not  know  if  he 
taught  him  something  like  a  prayer  at  such  times,  or  spoke 
to  him  of  supernatural  things,  or  upon  what  they  discoursed. 
I  only  know  that  it  was  an  interchange  of  soul,  and  that 
usually  he  rame  away  from  it  looking  glad.  But  to-night, 
after  remaining  longer  than  usual,  he  returned  with  a  face 
more  haggard  than  I  had  seen  it  yet. 

He  sat  down  opposite  me  at  the  table,  and  there  was 
silence,  with  an  ever-deepening,  sympathetic  pain  on  my  part. 
At  last  I  raised  my  eyes  to  his  face;  one  elbow  rested  upon 
the  table,  and  his  head  leaned  upon  his  hand.  The  lamp- 
light fell  full  upon  his  face,  and  there  was  that  in  it  which 
lirould  let  me  be  silent  no  longer,  any  more  than  one  could 


196  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

see  a  comrade  bleeding  to  death,  and  not  try  to  stanch  the 
wound.  I  stepped  up  to  him  and  laid  my  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  looked  up  drearily,  unrecognizingly,  unsmil- 
ingly  at  me. 

"  Eugen,  what  hast  thou?  " 

"  La  mort  dans  Vdme,"  he  answered,  quoting  from  a  poem 
which  we  had  both  been  reading. 

"  And  what  has  caused  it?  " 

"  Must  you  know,  friend?  "  he  asked.  "  If  I  did  not  need 
to  tell  it,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

"  I  must  know  it,  or — or  leave  you  to  it!  "  said  I,  choking 
back  some  emotion.     "  I  cannot  pass  another  day  like  this." 

"  And  I  had  no  right  to  let  you  spend  such  a  day  as  this," 
he  answered.  "Forgive  me  once  again,  Friedel — you  who 
have  forgiven  so  much  and  so  often." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  let  us  have  the  worst,  Eugen.  It  is  some- 
thing about " 

I  glanced  toward  the  door,  on  the  other  side  of  which  Sig- 
mund  was  sleeping. 

His  face  became  set,  as  if  of  stone.  One  word,  and  one 
alone,  after  a  short  pause,  passed  his  lips — "  J  a ! " 

I  breathed  again.     It  was  so,  then. 

"  I  told  you,  Friedel,  that  I  should  have  to  leave  him?  " 

The  words  dropped  out  one  by  one  from  his  lips,  distinct, 
short,  steady. 

"  Yes." 

"  That  was  bad,  very  bad.  The  worst,  I  thought,  that 
could  befall;  but  it  seems  that  my  imagination  was  limited." 

"Eugen,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  shall  not  have  to  leave  him.  I  shall  have  to  send  him 
away  from  me." 

As  if  with  the  utterance  of  the  words,  the  very  core  and 
fiber  of  resolution  melted  away  and  vanished,  and  the  broken 
spirit  turned,  writhing  and  shuddering,  from  the  phantom 
that  extended  its  arms  for  the  sacrifice;  he  flung  his  arms 
upon  the  table;  his  shoulders  heaved.  I  heard  two  sup- 
pressed, choked-down  sobs — the  sobs  of  a  strong  man — 
strong  alike  in  body  and  mind;  strongest  of  all  in  the  heart 
and  spirit  and  purpose  to  love  and  cherish. 

"Za  mort  dans  Vame,"  indeed!  He  could  have  chosen  no 
fitter  expression. 

"  Send  him  away!  "  I  echoed,  beneath  my  breath. 

"Send  my  child  away  from  me — as  if  I — did  not — want 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  197 

him,"  said  Courvoisier  slowly,  and  in  a  voice  made  low  and 
halting  with  anguish,  as  he  lifted  his  gaze,  dim  with  the  des- 
perate pain  of  coming  parting,  and  looked  me  in  the  face. 

I  had  begun  in  an  aimless  manner  to  pace  the  room,  my 
heart  on  fire,  my  brain  reaching  wildly  after  some  escape  from 
the  fetters  of  circumstance,  invisible  but  iron  strong,  relent- 
less as  cramps  and  glaives  of  tempered  steel.  I  knew  no  rea- 
son, of  course.  I  knew  no  outward  circumstances  of  my 
friend's  life  or  destiny.  I  did  not  wish  to  learn  any.  I  did 
know  that  since  he  said  it  was  so  it  must  be  so.  Sigmund 
must  be  sent  away!  He — we — must  be  left  alone;  two  poor 
men,  with  the  brightness  gone  from  our  lives. 

The  scene  does  not  let  me  rightly  describe  it.  It  was  an 
anguish  allied  in  its  intensity  to  that  of  Gethsemane.  Let 
me  relate  it  as  briefly  as  I  can. 

I  made  no  spoken  assurance  of  sympathy.  I  winced 
almost  at  the  idea  of  speaking  to  him.  I  knew  then  that  we 
may  contemplate,  or  believe  we  contemplate,  some  coming 
catastrophe  for  years,  believing  that  so  the  suffering,  when  it 
finally  falls,  will  be  lessened.  This  is  a  delusion.  Let  the 
blow  rather  come  short,  sharp,  and  without  forewarning; 
preparation  heightens  the  agony. 

"  Friedel,"  said  he  at  last,  "  you  do  not  ask  why  must 
this  be." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  ask  why.  I  know  that  it  must  be,  or 
you  would  not  do  it." 

"  I  would  tell  you  if  I  could= — if  I  might." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  suppose  that  I  wish  to  pry ^' 

I  began.     He  interrupted  me. 

"  You  will  make  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself,"  said  he. 
"  You  wish  to  pry!  Now,  let  me  see  how  much  more  I  can 
tell  you.  You  perhaps  think  it  wrong,  in  an  abstract  light, 
for  a  father  to  send  his  young  son  away  from  him.  That  is 
because  you  do  not  know  what  I  do.     If  you  did,  you  would 

say,  as  I  do,  that  it  must  bo  so I  never  saw  it  till  now. 

That  letter  was  a  revelation.  It  is  now  all  as  clear  as 
sunshine." 

I  assented. 

"  Then  you  consent  to  take  my  word  that  it  must  be  so, 
without  more." 

"  Indeed,  Eugen,  I  wish  for  no  more." 

IIq  looked  at  me.  "  If  I  were  to  tell  you,"  said  he  sud- 
denly, and  an  impulsive  light  beamed  in  his  eyes.    A  look  of 


198  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

relief — ^it  -was  nothing  else — of  hope,  crossed  his  face.  Then 
he  sunk  again  into  his  former  attitude — as  if  tired  and 
wearied  with  some  hard  battle;  exhausted,  or  what  we  more 
expressly  call  niederg^schlagen. 

"  Now  something  more,"  he  went  on;  and  I  saw  the  frown 
of  desperation  that  gathered  upon  his  brow.  He  went  on 
quickly,  as  if  otherwise  he  could  not  say  what  had  to  be  said: 
"  When  he  goes  from  me,  he  goes  to  learn  to  become  a 
stranger  to  me.  I  promise  not  to  see  him,  nor  write  to  him, 
nor  in  any  way  communicate  with  him,  or  influence  him. 
"We  part-^utterly  and  entirely." 

"  Eugen!  Impossible!  Herrgott!  Impossible!"  cried  I, 
coming  to  a  stop,  and  looking  incredulously  at  him.  That  I 
did  not  beheve.  "Impossible!"  I  repeated,  beneath  my 
breath. 

"  By  faith  men  can  move  mountains,"  he  retorted. 

This,  then,  was  the  flavoring  which  made  the  cup  so  in- 
tolerable. 

"  You  say  that  that  is  and  must  be  wrong  under  all  circum- 
stances," said  Eugen,  eying  me  steadily. 

I  paused.  I  could  almost  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to 
say,  "  Yes,  I  do."  But  my  faith  in  and  love  for  this  man 
had  grown  with  me;  as  a  daily  prayer  grows  part  of  one's 
thoughts,  so  was  my  confidence  in  him  part  of  my  mind.  He 
looked  as  if  he  were  appealing  to  me  to  say  that  it  must  be 
wrong,  and  so  give  him  some  excuse  to  push  it  aside.  But  I 
could  not.     After  wavering  for  a  moment,  I  answered: 

"  No.     I  am  sure  you  have  sufficient  reasons." 

"  I  have.     God  knows  I  have!  " 

In  the  silence  that  ensued  my  mind  was  busy.  Eugen 
Courvoisier  was  not  a  rehgious  man,  as  the  popular  meaning 
of  religious  runs.  He  did  not  say  of  his  misfortune,  "  It  is 
God's  will,"  nor  did  he  add,  "  and  therefore  sweet  to  me." 
He  said  nothing  of  whose  will  it  was;  but  I  felt  that  had  that 
cause  been  a  living  thing — had  it  been  a  man,  for  instance — • 
he  would  have  gripped  it  and  fastened  to  it  until  it  lay  dead 
and  impotent,  and  he  could  set  his  heel  upon  it. 

But  it  was  no  strong,  living,  tangible  thing.  It  was  a 
breathless  abstraction — a  something  existing  in  the  minds  of 
men,  and  which  they  call  "  Eight!  "  and  being  that— not  an 
outside  law  which  an  officer  of  the  law  could  enforce  upon 
him;  being  that  abstraction,  he  obeyed  it. 

As  for  saying  that  because  it  was  right  he  liked  it,  or  felt 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  199 

any  consolation  from  the  knowledge — ^he  never  once  pre- 
tended to  any  such  thing;  but,  true  to  his  character  of  Child 
of  the  World,  hated  it  with  a  hatred  as  strong  as  his  love  for 
the  creature  which  it  deprived  him  of.  Only — he  did  it. 
He  is  not  alone  in  such  circumstances.  Others  have  obeyed 
and  will  again  obey  this  invisible  law  in  circumstances  as 
anguishing  as  those  in  which  he  stood,  will  steel  their  hearts 
to  hardness  while  every  fiber  cries  out,  "  Relent!  "  or  will, 
like  him,  writhe  under  the  lash,  shake  their  chained  hands  at 
Heaven,  and — submit. 

"  One  more  question,  Eugen.    When?  " 

"  Soon." 

"  A  year  would  seem  soon  to  any  of  us  three.'* 

"  In  a  very  short  time.  It  may  be  in  weeks;  it  may  be  in 
days.  Now,  Friedhelm,  have  a  little  pity  and  don't  probe 
any  further." 

But  I  had  no  need  to  ask  any  more  questions.  The  dreary 
evening  passed  somehow  over,  and  bedtime  came,  and  the 
morrow  dawmed. 

For  us  three  it  brought  the  knowledge  that  for  an  indefi- 
nite time  retrospective  happiness  must  play  the  part  of  sun 
on  our  mental  horizon. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"My  Lady's  Glory." 

" KoNiGSALLEE,  No.  3/'  wrote  Adelaide  to  me,  "is  the 
house  which  has  been  taken  for  us.  We  shall  be  there  on 
Tuesday  evening." 

I  accepted  this  communication  in  my  own  sense,  and  did 
not  go  to  meet  Adelaide,  nor  visit  her  that  evening,  but  wrote 
a  card,  saying  I  would  come  on  the  following  morning.  I 
had  seen  the  house  which  had  been  taken  for  Sir  Peter  and 
Lady  Le  Marchant — a  large,  gloomy-looking  house,  with  a 
tragedy  attached  to  it,  which  had  stood  empty  ever  since  I 
had  come  to  Elberthal. 

Up  to  the  fashionable  Konigsallee,  under  the  naked  chest- 
nut avenue,  and  past  the  great  long  Caserne  and  Exerzier- 
platz — a  way  on  which  I  did  not  as  a  rule  intrude  my  ancient 
and  poverty-stricken  garments,  I  went  on  the  morning  after 
Adelaide's  arrival.     Lady  Le  Marchant  had  not  yet  left  her 


200  ^THE  FIRST  YlOLim 

room,  but  if  I  were  Miss  "Wedderbum  I  was  to  be  taken  to  her 

immediately.  Then  I  was  taken  upstairs,  and  had  time  to 
remark  upon  the  contrast  between  my  sister's  surroundings 
and  my  own,  before  I  was  delivered  over  to  a  lady's-maid — 
French  in  nationality — who  opened  a  door  and  announced 
me  as  Mile.  Veddairebairne.  I  had  a  rapid,  dim  impression 
that  it  was  quite  the  chamber  of  a  grande  dame,  in  the  midst 
of  which  stood  my  lady  herself,  having  slowly  risen  as  I 
came  in. 

"At  last  you  have  condescended  to  come,"  said  the  old 
proud,  curt  voice. 

"How  are  you,  Adelaide?"  said  I  originally,  feeling  that 
any  display  of  emotion  would  be  unwelcome  and  inappro- 
priate, and  moreover,  feeling  any  desire  to  indulge  in  the 
same  suddenly  evaporate. 

She  took  my  hand  loosely,  gave  me  a  little  chilly  kiss  on 
the  cheek,  and  then  held  me  off  at  arms'-length  to  look  at  me. 

I  did  not  speak.  I  could  think  of  nothing  agreeable  to  say. 
The  only  words  that  rose  to  my  lips  were,  "  How  very  ill  you 
look! "  and  I  wisely  concluded  not  to  say  them.  She  was 
very  beautiful,  and  looked  prouder  and  more  imperious  than 
ever.  But  she  was  changed.  I  could  not  tell  what  it  was. 
I  could  find  no  name  for  the  subtle  alteration;  ere  long  I 
knew  only  too  well  what  it  was.  Then,  I  only  knew  that  she 
was  different  from  what  she  had  been,  and  different  in  a  way 
that  aroused  tenfold  all  my  vague  forebodings. 

She  was  wasted  too — had  gone,  for  her,  quite  thin;  and 
the  repressed  restlessness  of  her  eyes  made  a  disagreeable  im- 
pression upon  me.  Was  she  perhaps  wasted  with  passion  and 
wicked  thoughts?  She  looked  as  if  it  would  not  have  taken 
much  to  bring  the  smoldering  fire  into  a  blaze  of  full  fury — 
as  if  fire  and  not  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

She  was  in  a  loose  silk  dressing  gown,  which  fell  in  long 
folds  about  her  stately  figure.  Her  thick  black  hair  was 
twisted  into  a  knot  about  her  head.  She  was  surrounded  on 
all  sides  with  rich  and  costly  things.  All  the  old  severe  sim- 
plicity of  style  had  vanished — ^it  seemed  as  if  she  had  gratified 
every  passing  fantastic  wish  or  whim  of  her  restless,  reckless 
spirit,  and  the  result  was  a  curious  medley  of  the  ugly,  gro- 
tesque, ludicrous,  and  beautiful — a  feverish  dream  of  Cleo- 
patra-like luxury,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  stood,  as 
beautiful  and  sinuous  as  a  serpent,  and  looking  as  if  she  could 
be,  upon  occasion,  as  poisonous  as  the  same. , 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  201 

She  looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot  with  piercing  eyes, 
and  then  said  half  scornfully,  half  enviously: 

"  How  well  a  stagnant  life  seems  to  suit  some  people! 
Now  you — you  are  immensely  improved — unspeakably  im- 
proved. You  have  grown  into  a  pretty  woman — more  than 
a  pretty  woman.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  a  few  months 
could  make  such  an  alteration  in  anyone." 

Her  words  struck  me  as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  herself. 

"  I  might  say  the  same  to  you,"  said  I  constrainedly.  "  I 
think  you  are  very  much  altered." 

Indeed  I  felt  strangely  ill  at  ease  with  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture who,  I  kept  trying  to  convince  myself,  was  my  sister 
Adelaide,  but  who  seemed  further  apart  from  me  than  ever. 
But  the  old  sense  of  fascination  which  she  had  been  wont  to 
exercise  over  me  returned  again  in  all  or  in  more  than  its 
primitive  strength. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  she,  forcing  me  into  a  deep 
easy-chair.  "  I  have  millions  of  things  to  ask  you.  Take 
off  your  hat  and  mantle.  You  must  stay  all  day.  Heavens! 
how  shabby  you  are!  I  never  saw  anything  so  worn  out — 
and  yet  your  dress  suits  you,  and  you  look  nice  in  it."  (She 
sighed  deeply.)  "  Nothing  suits  me  now.  Formerly  I 
looked  well  in  everything.  I  should  have  looked  well  in  rags, 
and  people  would  have  turned  to  look  after  me.  Now,  what- 
ever I  put  on  makes  me  look  hideous." 

"Nonsense. ''' 

"  It  does And  I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  added,  closing 

her  lips  as  if  she  closed  in  some  bitter  joy. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you  have  come  here,"  I 
inquired  innocently.  "  I  was  so  astonished.  It  was  the  last 
place  I  should  have  thought  of  your  coming  to." 

"  Naturally.  But  you  see  Sir  Peter  adores  me  so  that  he 
hastens  to  gratify  ray  smallest  wish.  I  expressed  a  desire 
one  day  to  see  you,  and  two  days  afterward  we  were  en  rovtc. 
He  said  I  should  have  my  wish.  Sisterly  love  was  a  beautiful 
thing,  and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  encourage  it." 

I  looked  at  her,  and  could  not  decide  whether  she  were  in 
jest  or  earnest.  If  she  were  in  Jest,  it  was  but  a  sorr}''  kind  of 
joke — if  in  earnest,  she  chose  a  disagreeably  flippant  man- 
ner of  expressing  herself. 

"  Sir  Peter  has  great  faith  in  annoying  and  thwarting  me," 
she  went  on.  "  He  has  been  looking  better  and  more  cheer- 
ful ever  since  we  left  Rome." 


202  THE  FIRST  VJOZm. 

"  But,  Adelaide — if  you  wished  to  leave  Kome '* 

"  But  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  Eome.  I  Adshed  to  stay — so 
we  came  away,  you  know." 

The  suppressed  rage  and  hatred  in  her  tone  made  me  feel 
uncomfortable.  I  avoided  speaking,  but  I  could  not  alto- 
gether avoid  looking  at  her.  Our  eyes  met,  and  Adelaide 
burst  into  a  peal  of  harsh  laughter. 

"  Oh,  your  face.  May!  It  is  a  study!  I  had  a  particular 
objection  to  coming  to  Elberthal,  therefore  Sir  Peter  in- 
stantly experienced  a  particular  desire  to  come.  When  you 
are  married  you  will  understand  these  things.  I  was  almost 
enjoying  myself  in  Eome;  I  suppose  Sir  Peter  was  afraid  that 
familiarity  might  bring  dislike,  or  that  if  we  stayed  too  long 
I  might  feel  it  dull.  This  is  a  gay,  lively  place,  I  believe — 
we  came  here,  and  for  aught  I  know  we  are  going  to  stay 
here." 

She  laughed  again,  and  I  sat  aghast.  I  had  been  miserable 
about  Adelaide's  marriage,  but  I  had  veiy  greatly  trusted  in 
what  she  had  prognosticated  about  being  able  to  do  what  she 
liked  with  him.  I  began  now  to  think  that  there  must  have 
been  some  miscalculation — that  she  had  mistaken  the  metal 
and  found  it  not  quite  so  ductile  as  she  had  expected.  I 
knew  enough  of  her  to  be  aware  that  I  was  probably  the  first 
person  to  whom  she  had  spoken  in  such  a  manner,  and  that 
not  even  to  me  would  she  have  so  spoken  unless  some  strong 
feeling  had  prompted  her  to  it.  This  made  me  still  more 
uneasy.  She  held  so  fast  by  the  fine  polish  of  the  outside  of 
the  cup  and  platter.  Very  likely  the  world  in  general  sup- 
posed that  she  and  Sir  Peter  were  a  model  couple. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  she  pursued.  "  It  is  a  relief  to 
have  someone  else  than  Arkwright  to  speak  to." 

"  Who  is  Arkwright?  " 

"  Sir  Peter's  secretary — a  very  good  sort  of  boy.  He 
knows  all  about  our  domestic  bliss  and  other  concerns — be- 
cause he  can't  help.     Sir  Peter  tells  him " 

A  hand  on  the  door-handle  outside.  A  pause  ere  the  per- 
sons came  in,  for  Sir  Peter's  voice  was  audible,  giving  direc- 
tions to  someone,  probably  the  secretary  of  whom  Adelaide 
had  spoken.  She  started  violently;  the  color  fled  from  her 
face;  pale  dismay  painted  itself  for  a  moment  upon  her  lips, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  In  the  next  she  was  outwardly  her- 
self again.  But  the  hand  trembled  which  passed  her  hand- 
kerchief over  her  lips. 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLIK  203 

The  doat  was  fully  opened,  and  Sir  Peter  came  in. 

Yes;  that  was  the  same  face,  the  same  pent-house  of 
ragged  eyebrow  over  the  cold  and  snaky  eye  beneath,  the 
game  wolfish  mouth  and  permanent  hungry  smile.  But  he 
looked  better,  stouter,  stronger;  more  cheerful.  It  seemed 
as  if  my  lady's  society  had  done  him  a  world  of  good,  and 
acted  as  a  kind  of  elixir  of  life. 

I  observed  Adelaide.  As  he  came  in  her  eyes  dropped; 
her  hands  closed  tightly  over  the  handkerchief  she  held, 
crushing  it  together  in  her  grasp;  she  held  her  breath;  then, 
recovered,  she  faced  him. 

"Heyday!  Whom  have  we  here?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
which  time  and  a  residence  in  hearing  of  the  language  of 
music  had  not  mollified.  "  Whom  have  we  here  ?  Your 
dressmaker,  my  lady?  Have  you  had  to  send  for  a  dress- 
maker already?  Ha!  what?  Your  sister?  Impossible! 
^liss  May,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  again!  Are  you  very 
well?  You  look  a  little — a — shabby,  one  might  almost  say, 
my  dear — a  little  seedy,  hey?  " 

I  had  no  answer  ready  for  this  winning  greeting. 

"  Eather  like  my  lady  before  she  was  my  lady,"  he  con- 
tinued pleasantly,  as  liis  eyes  roved  over  the  room,  over  its 
furniture,  over  us. 

There  was  power — a  horrible  kind  of  strength  and  vitality 
in  that  figure — a  crushing  impression  of  his  potency  to  make 
one  miserable,  conveyed  in  the  strong,  rasping  voice.  Quite 
a  different  Sir  Peter  from  my  erstwhile  wooer.  He  was  a 
masculine,  strong,  planning  creature,  whose  force  of  will  waa 
able  to  crush  that  of  my  sister  as  easily  as  her  forefinger 
might  crush  a  troublesome  midge.  He  was  not  blind  or 
driveling;  he  could  reason,  plot,  argue,  concoct  a  systematic 
plan  for  revenge,  and  work  it  out  fully  and  in  detail;  he  was 
able  at  once  to  grasp  the  broadest  bearing  and  the  minute 
details  of  a  position,  and  to  act  upon  their  intimations  with 
crushing  accuracy.  He  was  calm,  decided,  keen,  and  all  in  a 
certain  small,  bounded,  positive  way  which  made  him  all  the 
more  efficient  as  a  ruling  factor  in  this  social  sphere,  where 
small,  bounded,  positive  strength,  without  keen  sympathies 
save  in  the  one  direction — self — and  without  idea  of  gener- 
osity, save  with  regard  to  its  own  merits,  pays  better  than  a 
higher  kind  of  strength — better  than  the  strength  of  Joan  of 
Arc,  of  St.  Stephen,  or  Christ. 

This  was  the  real  Sir  Peter,  and  before  the  revelation  I 


204  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

stood  aghast.  And  that  look  in  Adelaide's  eyes,  that  tone 
in  her  voice,  that  restrained  spring  in  her  movements,  would 
have  been  rebellion,  revolution,  but  in  the  act  of  breaking 
forth  it  became — fear.  She  had  been  outwitted,  most  thor- 
oughly and  completely.  She  had  got  a  jailer  and  a  prison. 
She  feared  the  former,  and  every  tradition  of  her  life  bade 
her  remain  in  the  latter. 

Sir  Peter,  pleasantly  exhilarated  by  my  confusion  and  my 
lady's  sullen  silence,  proceeded  with  an  agreeable  smile: 

"  Are  you  never  coming  downstairs,  madam?  I  have  been 
deprived  long  enough  of  the  delights  of  your  society.  Come 
down!     I  want  you  to  read  to  me." 

"  I  am  engaged,  as  you  may  see,"  she  answered  in  a  low 
voice  of  opposition. 

"  Then  the  engagement  must  be  deferred.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  reading  to  do.  There  is  the  Times  for  a 
week." 

"  I  hate  the  Times,  and  I  don't  understand  it." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  why  you  should  learn  to  do  so. 
In  half  an  hour,"  said  Sir  Peter,  consulting  his  watch,  "I 
shall  be  ready,  or  say  in  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Absurd!  I  cannot  be  ready  in  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Where  is  Mr.  Arkwright?  " 

"  What  is  Mr.  Arkwright  to  you,  my  dear?  You  may  be 
sure  that  Mr.  Arkwright's  time  is  not  being  wasted.  If  his 
mamma  knew  what  he  was  doing  she  would  be  quite  satis- 
fied— oh,  quite!     In  quarter  of  an  hour." 

He  was  leaving  the  room,  but  paused  at  the  door,  with  a 
suspicious  look. 

"  Miss  May,  it  is  a  pity  for  you  to  go  away.  It  will  do  you 
good  to  see  your  sister,  I  am  sure.  Pray  spend  the  day  with 
us.     Now,  my  lady,  waste  no  more  time." 

With  that  he  finally  departed.  Adelaide's  face  was  white. 
but  she  did  not  address  me.     She  rang  for  her  maid. 

"  Dress  my  hair,  Toinette,  and  do  it  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Is  my  dress  ready?  "  was  all  she  said. 

"  j\[ais  Old,  madame.'' 

"  Quick!  "  she  repeated.  "  You  have  only  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

Despite  the  suppressed  cries,  expostulations,  and  announce- 
ments that  it  was  impossible,  Adelaide  was  dressed  in  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

"You  will  stay,  May?"  said  she;  and  I  knew  it  was  only 


THE  FIRST  riOZm.  205 

the  presence  of  Toinette  which  restrained  her  from  urgently 
imploring  me  to  stay. 

I  remained,  though  not  all  day;  only  until  it  was  time  to 
go  and  have  my  lesson  from  Von  Francius.  During  my  stay, 
however,  I  had  ample  opportunity  to  observe  how  things 
were. 

Sir  Peter  appeared  to  have  lighted  upon  a  congenial  occu- 
pation somewhat  late  in  life,  or  perhaps  previous  practice  had 
made  him  an  adept  in  it.  His  time  was  fully  occupied  in 
carrying  out  a  series  of  experiments  upon  his  wife's  pride, 
with  a  view  to  humble  and  bring  it  to  the  ground.  If  he  did 
not  fully  succeed  in  that,  he  succeeded  in  making  her  hate 
him  as  scarcely  ever  was  man  hated  before. 

They  had  now  been  married  some  two  or  three  months,  and 
had  forsworn  all  semblance  of  a  pretense  at  unity  or  concord. 
She  thwarted  him  as  much  as  she  could,  and  defied  him  as  far 
as  she  dared.  He  played  round  and  round  his  victim,  spring- 
ing upon  her  at  last,  with  some  look  or  word,  or  hint,  or  smile, 
which  meant  something — I  know  not  what — that  cowed  her. 

Oh,  it  was  a  pleasant  household!  a  cheerful,  amiable 
scene  of  connubial  love,  in  which  this  fair  woman  of  two-and- 
twenty  found  herself,  with  every  prospect  of  its  continuing 
for  an  indefinite  number  of  years;  for  the  Le  Marchants  were 
a  long-lived  family,  and  Sir  Peter  ailed  notliing. 


CHAPTER  YT. 

''WennMenschen  aiis  einander  gehen, 
So  sagen  sie,  Auf  Wiedersehen  1 
Auf  Wiedersehen ! " 

EuGEN  had  said,  "  Very  soon — it  may  be  weeks,  it  may  be 
days,''  and  had  begged  me  not  to  inquire  further  into  the 
matter.  Seeing  his  anguish,  I  had  refrained;  but  when  two 
or  three  days  had  passed,  and  nothing  was  done  or  said,  I 
began  to  hope  that  the  parting  might  not  be  deferred  even  a 
few  weeks;  for  I  believe  the  father  suffered,  and  with  him 
the  child,  enough  each  day  to  wipe  out  years  of  transgression. 

It  was  impossible  to  hide  from  Sigmund  that  some  great 
grief  threatened,  or  had  already  descended  upon  his  father, 
and  therefore  upon  him.  The  child's  sympathy  with  the 
man's  nature,  with  every  mood  and  feeling — I  had  almost 


206  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

Baid  his  intuitive  imderstanding  of  his  father's  very  thoughts- 
was  too  keen  and  intense  to  be  hoodwinked  or  turned  aside. 
He  did  not  behave  like  other  children,  of  course — versteht 
sich,  as  Eugen  said  to  me  with  a  dreary  smile.  He  did  not 
hang  about  his  father's  neck,  imploring  to  hear  what  was  the 
matter;  he  did  not  weep  or  wail,  or  make  complaints.  After 
that  first  moment  of  uncontrollable  pain  and  anxiety,  when 
he  had  gone  into  the  room  whose  door  was  closed  upon  him, 
and  in  which  Eugen  had  not  told  him  all  that  was  coming,  he 
displayed  no  violent  emotion;  but  he  did  what  was  to  Eugen 
and  me  much  more  heart-breaking — brooded  silently;  grew 
every  day  wanner  and  thinner,  and  spent  long  intervals  in 
watching  his  father,  with  eyes  which  nothing  could  divert 
and  nothing  deceive.  If  Eugen  tried  to  be  cheerful,  to  put 
on  a  Httle  gayety  of  demeanor  which  he  did  not  feel  in  his 
heart,  Sigmund  made  no  answer  to  it,  but  continued  to  look 
with^  the  same  solemn,  large,  and  mournful  gaze. 

His  father's  grief  was  eating  into  his  own  young  heart. 
He  asked  not  what  it  was;  but  both  Eugen  and  I  knew  that 
in  time,  if  it  went  on  long  enough,  he  would  die  of  it.  The 
picture,  "Innocence  Dying  of  Blood-stain,"  which  Haw- 
thorne has  suggested  to  us,  may  have  its  prototypes  and 
counterparts  in  unsuspected  places.  Here  was  one.  Nor  did 
Sigmund,  as  some  others,  children  both  of  larger  and  smaller 
growth,  might  have  done,  turn  to  me  and  ask  me  to  tell  liim 
the  meaning  of  the  sad  change  which  had  crept  silently  and 
darkly  into  our  lives.  He  outspartaned  the  Spartan  in  many 
ways.  His  father  had  not  chosen  to  tell  him;  he  would  die 
rather  than  ask  the  meaning  of  the  silence. 

One  night — when  some  three  days  had  passed  since  the 
letter  had  come — as  Eugen  and  I  sat  alone,  it  struck  me  that 
I  heard  a  weary  turning  over  in  the  little  bed  in  the  next 
room,  and  a  stifled  sob  coming  distinctly  to  my  ears.  I  lifted 
my  head.  Eugen  had  heard  too;  he  was  looking,  with  an 
expression  of  pain  and  indecision,  toward  the  door.  With  a 
vast  effort — the  greatest  my  regard  for  him  had  yet  made — ^I 
took  it  upon  myself,  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm,  and  coercing 
him  again  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  half  risen, 
whispered: 

"  I  will  tell  him.     You  cannot.      NicM  ivalir?  " 

A  look  was  the  only,  but  a  very  sufficient  answer. 

I  went  into  the  inner  room  and  closed  the  door.  A  dim 
whiteness  of  moonlight  struggled  through  the  shutters,  and 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  207 

▼ery,  very  faintly  showed  me  the  outline  of  the  child  who  was 
dear  to  me.  Stooping  down  beside  him,  I  asked  if  he  were 
awake. 

"  J  a,  ich  wache,"  he  repUed  in  a  patient,  resigned  kind  of 
small  voice. 

"  Why  dost  thou  not  sleep,  Sigmund?  Art  thou  not 
well?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  well,"  he  answered;  but  with  an  expres- 
sion of  double  meaning.     "  Mir  isfs  nicht  wolil." 

"  What  ails  thee?  " 

"  If  you  know  what  ails  him,  you  know  what  ails  me.*' 

"  Do  you  not  know  yourself?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Sigmund,  with  a  short  sob.  "  He  says  he  can- 
not tell  me." 

I  slipped  upon  my  knees  beside  the  little  bed,  and  paused 
a  moment.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  prayed  to  some- 
thing which  in  my  mind  existed  outside  all  earthly  things — 
perhaps  to  the  "  Freude  "  which  Schiller  sung  and  Beethoven 
composed  to — for  help  in  the  hardest  task  of  my  life. 

"  Cannot  tell  me."  No  wonder  he  could  not  tell  that  soft- 
eyed,  clinging  warmth;  that  subtle  mixture  of  fire  and  soft- 
ness, spirit  and  gentleness — that  spirit  which  in  the  years  of 
trouble  they  had  passed  together  had  grown  part  of  his  very 
nature — that  they  must  part!  No  wonder  that  the  father, 
upon  whom  the  child  built  his  every  idea  of  what  was  great 
and  good,  beautiful,  right,  and  true  in  every  shape  and  form, 
could  not  say,  "You  shall  not  stay  with  me;  you  shall  be 
thrust  forth  to  strangers;  and,  moreover,  I  will  not  see  you 
nor  speak  to  you,  nor  shall  you  hear  my  name;  and  this  I 
will  do  without  telling  you  why " — that  he  could  not  say 
this — what  had  the  man  been  who  could  have  said  it? 

As  I  knelt  in  the  darkness  by  Sigmund's  little  bed,  and  felt 
his  pillow  wet  with  his  silent  tears,  and  his  hot  cheek  touch- 
ing my  hand,  I  knew  it  all.  I  believe  I  felt  for  once  as  a 
man  who  has  begotten  a  child  and  must  hurt  it,  repulse  it, 
part  from  it,  feels. 

"  No,  my  child,  he  cannot  tell  thee,  because  he  loves  thee 
so  dearly,"  said  I.  "  But  I  can  tell  thee;  I  have  his  leave  to 
tell  thee,  Sigmund." 

"Friedel?" 

"  Thou  art  a  very  little  boy,  but  thou  art  not  hke  othei 
boys;  thy  father  is  not  just  hke  other  fathers." 

"  I  know  it." 


208  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  He  is  very  sad." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  his  life  which  he  has  to  live  will  be  a  sad  one." 

The  child  began  to  weep  again.  I  had  to  pause.  How 
was  I  to  open  my  lips  to  instruct  this  baby  upon  the  fearful, 
profound  abyss  of  a  subject — the  evil  and  the  sorrow  that  are 
in  the  world — how,  how  force  those  little  tender,  bare  feet, 
from  the  soft  grass  on  to  the  rough  up-hill  path  all  strewed 
with  stones,  and  all  rugged  with  ups  and  downs?  It  was 
horribly  cruel. 

"  Life  is  very  sad  sometimes,  mdn  Sigmund.'* 

"Is  it?" 

"  Yes.  Some  people,  too,  are  much  sadder  than  others. 
I  think  thy  father  is  one  of  those  people.  Perhaps  thou  art 
to  be  another." 

"  What  my  father  is  I  will  be,"  said  he  softly;  and  I 
thought  that  it  was  another  and  a  holier  version  of  Eugen's 
words  to  me,  wrung  out  of  the  inner  bitterness  of  his  heart, 
"  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children, 
even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  whether  they 
deserve  it  or  not."  The  child,  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
ancient  saying,  merely  said  with  love  and  satisfaction  swell- 
ing his  voice  to  fullness,  "  What  my  father  is,  I  will  be." 

"  Couldst  thou  give  up  something  very  dear  for  his  sake?  " 

"  What  a  queer  question!  "  said  Sigmund.  "  I  want  noth- 
ing when  I  am  with  him." 

"^i,  mein  Kind!  Thou  dost  not  know  what  I  mean. 
What  is  the  greatest  joy  of  thy  life?  To  be  near  thy  father 
and  see  him,  hear  his  voice,  and  touch  him,  and  feel  him 
near  thee;  nicht?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  in  a  scarcely  audible  whisper. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  I  was  racking  my  brains 
to  think  of  some  way  of  introducing  the  rest  without  shock- 
ing him  too  much,  when  suddenly  he  said,  in  a  clear,  low 
voice: 

"  That  is  it.  He  would  never  let  me  leave  him,  and  he 
would  never  leave  me." 

Silence  again  for  a  few  moments,  which  seemed  to  deepen 
some  sneaking  shadow  in  the  boy's  mind,  for  he  repeated 
through  clinched  teeth,  and  in  a  voice  which  fought  hard 
against  conviction,  "  Never,  never,  never!  " 

"  Sigmund — never  of  his  own  will.  But  remember  what 
I  said,  that  he  is  sad,  and  there  is  something  in  his  life  which 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  209 

makes  him  not  only  unable  to  do  what  he  likes,  but  obliged 
to  do  exactly  what  he  does  not  like — what  he  most  hates  and 
fears — to — to  part  from  thee." 

" Nein,  nein,  nein!"  said  he.  ""Who  can  make  him  do 
anything  he  does  not  wish?  Who  can  take  me  away  from 
him?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  it  must  be  so.  There 
is  no  escaping  from  it,  and  no  getting  out  of  it.  It  is  horrible, 
but  it  is  so.  Sometimes,  Sigmund,  there  are  things  in  the 
world  like  this." 

"  The  world  must  be  a  very  cruel  place,"  he  said,  as  if  first 
struck  with  that  fact. 

"  Now  dost  thou  understand,  Sigmund,  why  he  did  not 
speak?     Couldst  thou  have  told  him  such  a  thing?  " 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  There,  in  the  next  room,  and  very  sad  for  thee." 

Sigmund,  before  I  knew  what  he  was  thinking  of,  was  out 
of  bed  and  had  opened  the  door.  I  saw  that  Eugen  looked 
up,  saw  the  child  standing  in  the  doorwa}^,  sprung  up,  and 
Sigmund  bounded  to  meet  him.  A  cry  as  of  a  great  terror 
came  from  the  child.  Self-restraint,  so  long  maintained, 
broke  down;  he  cried  in  a  loud,  frightened  voice: 

" Mein  Vater,  Friedel  says  I  must  leave  thee!"  and  burst 
into  a  storm  of  sobs  and  crjdng  such  as  I  had  never  before 
known  him  yield  to.  Eugen  folded  him  in  his  arms,  laid  his 
head  upon  his  breast,  and  clasping  him  very  closely  to  him, 
paced  about  the  room  with  him  in  silence,  until  the  first  fit  of 
grief  was  over.  I,  from  the  dark  room,  watched  them  in  a 
kind  of  languor,  for  I  was  weary,  as  though  I  had  gone 
through  somxC  physical  struggle. 

They  passed  to  and  fro  like  some  moving  dream.  Bit  by 
bit  the  child  learned  from  his  father's  lips  the  pitiless  truth, 
down  to  the  last  bitter  drop;  that  the  parting  was  to  be  com- 
plete, and  they  were  not  to  see  each  other. 

"  But  never,  never?  "  asked  Sigmund,  in  a  voice  of  terror 
and  pain  mingled. 

"  When  thou  art  a  man,  that  will  depend  upon  thyself," 
said  Eugen.     "  Thou  wilt  have  to  choose." 

"Choose  what?" 

"  Whether  thou  wilt  see  me  again." 

"  When  I  am  a  man  may  I  choose?  "  he  asked,  raising  his 
head  with  sudden  animation. 
.     "  Yes;  I  shall  see  to  that." 


210  THE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

"  Oh,  ver3'  well!  I  have  chosen  now,"  said  Signmnd,  and 
the  thought  gave  him  visible  joy  and  relief. 

Eugen  kissed  him  passionately.  Blessed  ignorance  of  the 
hardening  influences  of  the  coming  years!  Blessed  tender- 
ness of  heart  and  singleness  of  affection  which  could  see  no 
possibility  that  circumstances  might  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  now  loved  and  adored  superior  being  appear  undesirable! 
And  blessed  sanguineness  of  five  years  old,  which  could 
bridge  the  gulf  between  then  and  manhood,  and  cry,  Auf 
tviedersehen  ! 

During  the  next  few  days  more  letters  were  exchanged. 
Eugen  received  one  which  he  answered.  Part  of  the  answer 
he  showed  to  me^,  and  it  ran  thus: 

"  I  consent  to  this,  but  only  upon  one  condition,  which  is 
that  when  my  son  is  eighteen  years  old,  you  tell  him  all,  and 
give  him  his  choice  whether  he  see  me  again  or  not.  ]\Iy 
word  is  given  not  to  interfere  in  the  matter,  and  I  can  trust 
3'-ours  when  you  promise  that  it  shall  be  as  I  stipulate.  I 
want  your  answer  upon  this  point,  which  is  very  simple,  and 
the  single  condition  I  make.  It  is,  however,  one  wliich  I 
cannot  and  will  not  waive." 

"  Thirteen  years,  Eugen,"  said  I. 

"  Yes;  in  thirteen  years  I  shall  be  forty-three." 

"  You  will  let  me  know  what  the  answer  to  that  is?  "  I 
went  on. 

He  nodded.     By  return  of  post  the  answer  came. 

"  It  is  '  yes,'  "  said  he,  and  paused.  "  The  day  after  to- 
morrow he  is  to  go." 

"Not  alone,  surely?" 

"No;  someone  will  come  for  him." 

I  heard  some  of  the  instructions  he  gave  his  boy. 

"  There  is  one  man  where  you  are  going,  whom  I  wish  you 
to  obey  as  you  would  me,  Sigmund,"  he  told  him. 

"Is  he  like  thee?" 

"  No;  much  better  and  wiser  than  I  am.  But,  remember, 
he  never  commands  twice.  Thou  must  not  question  and 
delay  as  thou  dost  with  thy  weak-minded  old  father.  He  is 
the  master  in  the  place  thou  art  going  to." 

"  Is  it  far  from  here?  " 

"  Not  exceedingly  far." 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  211 

"Hast  thou  been  there?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Eugen,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "  often." 

"What  must  I  call  this  man?  "  inquired  Sigmund. 

"  He  will  tell  thee  that.  Do  thou  obey  him  and  endeavor 
to  do  what  he  wishes,  and  so  thou  mayest  know  thou  art  best 
pleasing  me." 

"  And  when  I  am  a  man  I  can  choose  to  see  thee  again. 
But  where  wilt  thou  be?  " 

"When  the  time  comes  thou  wilt  soon  find  me  if  it  is 
necessary And  thy  music,"  pursued  Eugen.  "Remem- 
ber that  in  all  troubles  that  may  come  to  thee,  and  whatever 
thou  mayst  pass  through,  there  is  one  great,  beautiful  goddess 
who  abides  above  the  troubles  of  men,  and  is  often  most  beau- 
tiful in  the  hearts  that  are  most  troubled.  Eemember — 
whom?  " 

"  Beethoven,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Just  so.  And  hold  fast  to  the  service  of  the  goddess 
Music,  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world." 

"  And  thou  art  a  musician,"  said  Sigmund,  with  a  little 
laugh,  as  if  it  "  understood  itself "  that  his  father  should 
naturally  be  a  priest  of  "  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world." 

I  hurry  over  that  short  time  before  the  parting  came. 
Eugen  said  to  me: 

"  They  are  sending  for  him — an  old  servant.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  trust  him  with  him." 

And  one  morning  he  came — the  old  servant.  Sigmund 
happened  at  the  moment  not  to  be  in  the  sitting  room; 
Eugen  and  I  were.  There  was  a  knock,  and  in  answer  to  our 
Herein!  there  entered  an  elderly  man  of  soldierly  appear- 
ance, with  a  grizzled  mustache,  and  stiff,  military  bearing; 
he  was  dressed  in  a  very  plain,  but  very  handsome  livery,  and 
on  entering  the  room  and  seeing  Eugen,  he  paused  just 
within  the  door,  and  saluted  with  a  look  of  deep  respect;  nor 
did  he  attempt  to  advance  further.  Eugen  had  turned  very 
pale. 

It  struck  me  that  he  might  have  something  to  say  to  this 
messenger  of  fate,  and  with  some  words  to  that  effect  I  rose 
to  leave  them  together.     Eugen  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  Sit  still,  Friedhelm."  And  turning  to  the  man,  he 
added:  "  How  were  all  when  you  left,  Heinrich?  " 

"  Well,  Herr  Gr " 

,    "  Courvoisier." 


212  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIM 

"  All  were  well,  mein  Herr." 
"  Wait  a  short  time,"  said  he. 

A  silent  inclination  on  the  part  of  the  man.  Eugen  went 
into  the  inner  room  where  Sigmund  was,  and  closed  the  door. 
There  was  silence.  How  long  did  it  endure?  What  was 
passing  there?  What  throes  of  parting?  What  grief  not  to 
be  spoken  or  described? 

Meanwhile  the  elderly  man-servant  remained  in  his  sen- 
tinel attitude,  and  with  fixed  expressionless  countenance, 
within  the  doorway.     Was  the  time  long  to  him,  or  short? 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Sigmund  came  out  alone. 
God  help  us  all!  It  is  terrible  to  see  such  an  expression  upon 
a  child's  soft  face.  White  and  set  and  worn  as  if  with  years 
of  suffering  was  the  beautiful  little  face.  The  elderly  man 
started,  surprised  from  his  impassiveness,  as  the  child  canae 
into  the  room.  An  irrepressible  flash  of  emotion  crossed  his 
face;  he  made  a  step  forward.  Sigmund  seemed  as  if  he  did 
not  see  us.  He  was  making  a  mechanical  way  to  the  door, 
when  I  interrupted  him. 

"  Sigmund,  do  not  forget  thy  old  Friedhelm! "  I  cried, 
clasping  him  in  my  arms,  and  kissing  his  little  pale  face, 
thinking  of  the  day,  three  years  ago,  when  his  father  had 
brought  him  wrapped  up  in  the  plaid  on  that  wet  afternoon, 
and  my  heart  had  gone  out  to  him. 

" Lieber  Friedhelm!"  he  said,  returning  my  embrace, 
"Love  my  father  when  I — am  gone.  And — auf — auf — 
wiedersehen ! " 

He  loosed  his  arms  from  round  my  neck  and  went  up  to 
the  man,  sa3dng: 
"  I  am  ready." 

The  large  homy  hand  clasped  round  the  small  delicate  one. 
The  servant-man  turned,  and  with  a  stiff,  respectful  bow  to 
me,  led  Sigmund  from  the  room.  The  door  closed  after 
him — he  was  gone.  The  light  of  two  lonely  lives  was  put 
out.  Was  our  darling  right  or  wrong  in  that  persistent  Auf 
wiedersehen  of  his? 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLUa,  21& 


CHAPTEE  YII. 

Resignation  I  Welch'  elendes  Hillfsmittel !  und  doch  bleibt  es  mir 
dase  inzig  Uebrige. — Briefe  Beethovens. 

Several  small  events  which  took  place  at  this  time  had 
all  their  indirect  but  strong  bearing  on  the  histories  of  the 
characters  in  this  veracious  narrative.  The  great  concert  of 
the  "  Passions-musik  "  of  Bach  came  off  on  the  very  evening 
of  Sigmund's  departure.  It  was,  I  confess,  with  some  fear 
and  trembling  that  I  went  to  call  Eugen  to  his  duties,  for  he 
had  not  emerged  from  his  own  room  since  he  had  gone  into 
it  to  send  Sigmund  away. 

He  raised  his  face  as  I  came  in;  he  was  sitting  looking  out 
of  the  window,  and  told  me  afterward  that  he  had  sat  there, 
he  believed,  ever  since  he  had  been  unable  to  catch  another 
glimpse  of  the  carriage  which  bore  his  darling  away  from 
him. 

"  What  is  it,  Friedel?  "  he  asked,  when  I  came  in. 

I  suggested  in  a  subdued  tone  that  the  concert  began  in 
half  an  hour. 

"  Ah,  true!  "  said  he,  rising;  "I  must  get  ready.  Let  me 
see,  what  is  it?  " 

"  The  '  Passions-musik.' " 

"  To  be  sure!  Most  appropriate  music!  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  write  a  Passion  Music  myself  just  now." 

We  had  but  to  cross  the  road  from  our  dwelling  to  the 
concert  room.  As  we  entered  the  corridor  two  ladies  also 
stepped  into  it  from  a  very  grand  carriage.  They  were 
accompanied  by  a  young  man,  who  stood  a  little  to  one  side 
to  let  them  pass;  and  as  they  came  up  and  we  came  up.  Von 
Francius  came  up  too. 

One  of  the  ladies  was  May  Wedderbum,  who  was  dressed 
in  black  and  looked  exquisitely  lovely  to  my  eyes,  and,  I  felt, 
to  some  others,  with  her  warm  auburn  hair  in  shining  coils 
upon  her  head.  The  other  was  a  woman  in  whose  pale, 
magnificent  face  I  traced  some  likeness  to  our  fair  singer, 
but  she  was  different;  colder,  grander,  more  severe.  It  so 
happened  that  the  ladies  barred  the  way  as  we  arrived,  and 
we  had  to  stand  by  for  a  few  moments  as  Von  Francius  shook 
hands  with  Miss  Wedderburn  and  asked  her  smilingly  if  she 
were  in  good  voice. 


214.  THE  FIB8T  TJOLm. 

She  answered  in  the  prettiest  broken  German  I  ever  hearSi, 
and  then  turned  to  the  lady,  saying: 

"  Adelaide,  may  I  introduce  Herr  von  Francius — Lady  Le 
Marchant." 

A  stately  bow  from  the  lady — a  deep  reverence,  with  a 
momentary  glance  of  an  admiration  warmer  than  I  had  ever 
seen  in  his  eyes,  on  the  part  of  Von  Francius — a  glance  which 
was  instantly  suppressed  to  one  of  conventional  inexpressive- 
ness.  I  was  pleased  and  interested  with  this  little  peep  at 
a  rank  which  I  had  never  seen,  and  could  have  stood  watch- 
ing them  for  a  long  time;  the  splendid  beauty  and  the  great 
pride  of  bearing  of  the  English  lady  were  a  revelation  to  me, 
and  opened  quite  a  large,  unknown  world  before  my  mental 
eyes.  Eomances  and  poems,  and  men  dying  of  love,  or  kill- 
ing each  other  for  it,  no  longer  seemed  ridiculous;  for  a  smile 
or  a  warmer  glance  from  that  icily  beautiful  face  must  be 
something  not  to  forget. 

It  was  Eugen  who  pushed  forward,  with  a  frown  on  his 
brow,  and  less  than  his  usual  courtesy.  I  saw  his  eyes  and 
Miss  Wedderburn's  meet;  I  saw  the  sudden  flush  that  ran 
over  her  fair  face;  the  stern  composure  of  his.  He  would 
own  nothing;  but  I  was  strangely  mistaken  if  he  could  say 
that  it  was  merely  because  he  had  nothing  to  own. 

The  concert  was  a  success  so  far  as  Miss  Wedderbum  went. 
If  Von  Francius  had  allowed  repetitions,  one  song  at  least 
would  have  been  encored.  As  it  was,  she  was  a  success. 
And  Von  Francius  spent  his  time  in  the  pauses  with  her  and 
her  sister;  in  a  grave,  sedate  way  he  and  the  English  lady 
seemed  to  "  get  on." 

The  concert  was  over.  The  next  thing  that  was  of  any 
importance  to  us  occurred  shortly  afterward.  Von  Francius 
had  long  been  somewhat  unpopular  with  his  men,  and  at 
silent  enmity  with  Eugen,  who  was,  on  the  contrary,  a  uni- 
versal favorite.  There  came  a  crisis,  and  the  men  sent  a 
deputation  to  Eugen  to  say  that  if  he  would  accept  the  post 
of  leader  they  would  strike  and  refuse  to  accept  any  other 
than  he. 

This  was  an  opportunity  for  distinguishing  himself.  He 
decHned  the  honor;  his  words  were  few;  he  said  something 
about  how  kind  we  had  all  been  to  him,  "  from  the  time  when 
I  arrived;  when  Friedhelm  Helfen,  here,  took  me  in,  gave 
me  every  help  and  assistance  in  his  power,  and  showed  how 
appropriate  his  name  was;*  and  so  began  a  friendship  which, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  215 

please  Heaven,  shall  last  till  death  divides  us,  and  perhaps 
go  on  afterward."  He  ended  by  saying  some  words  which 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  me.  After  saying  that  he 
might  possibly  leave  Elberthal,  he  added:  "  Lastly,  I  cannot 
be  your  leader  because  I  never  intend  to  be  anyone's  leader 
— more  than  I  am  now,"  he  added  with  a  faint  smile.  "  A 
kind  of  deputy,  you  know.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  leader.  I 
have  no  gift  in  that  line " 

"  Dock!  "  from  half  a  dozen  around. 

"  None  whatever.  I  intend  to  remain  in  my  present  con- 
dition— no  lower  if  I  can  help  it,  but  certainly  no  higher. 
I  have  good  reasons  for  knowing  it  to  be  my  duty  to  do  so." 

And  then  he  urged  them  so  strongly  to  stand  by  Herr  von 
Francius  that  we  were  quite  astonished.  He  told  them  that 
Von  Francius  would  some  time  rank  with  Schumann,  Raff, 
or  Rubinstein,  and  that  the  men  who  rejected  him  now  would 
then  be  pointed  out  as  ignorant  and  prejudiced. 

And  amid  the  silence  that  ensued  he  began  to  direct  us — 
we  had  a  probe  to  Liszt's  "  Prometheus,"  I  remember. 

He  had  won  the  day  for  Von  Francius,  and  Von  Francius, 
getting  to  hear  of  it,  came  one  day  to  see  him  and  frankly 
apologized  for  his  prejudice  in  the  past  and  asked  Eugen  for 
his  friendship  in  the  future.     Eugen's  answer  puzzled  me. 

"  I  am  glad  you  know  that  I  honor  your  genius  and  wish 
you  well,"  said  he,  "  and  your  offer  of  friendship  honors 
me.  Suppose  I  say  I  accept  it — until  you  see  cause  to  with- 
draw it." 

"  You  are  putting  rather  a  remote  contingency  to  the 
front,"  said  Von  Francius. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps  not,"  said  Eugen  with  a  singular 
smile.  "  At  least  I  am  glad  to  have  had  this  token  of  your 
sense  of  generosity.  We  are  on  different  paths,  and  my 
friends  are  not  on  the  same  level  as  yours " 

"  Excuse  me;  every  true  artist  must  be  a  friend  of  every 
other  true  artist.  We  recognize  no  division  of  rank  or 
possession." 

Eugen  bowed,  still  smiling  ambiguously,  nor  could  Von 
Francius  prevail  upon  him  to  say  anything  nearer  or  more 
certain.  They  parted,  and  long  afterward  I  learned  the 
truth,  and  knew  the  bitterness  which  must  have  been  in 
Eugen's  heart;  the  shame,  the  gloom;  the  downcast  sorrow, 
as  he  refused  indirectly  but  decidedly  the  thing  he  would 
have  liked  so  well — to  shake  the  hand  of  a  man  high  in  posi- 


216  THE  FIBST  VlOim. 

tion  and  honorable  in  name — look  him  in  the  face  and  say, 
"I  accept  your  friendship — nor  need  you  be  ashamed  of 
wearing  mine  openly." 

He  refused  the  advance;  he  refused  that  and  every  other 
opening  for  advancement.  The  man  seemed  to  have  a  horror 
of  advancement,  or  of  coming  in  any  way  forward.  He  re- 
jected even  certain  offers  which  were  made  that  he  should 
perform  some  solos  at  different  concerts  in  Elberthal  and  the 
neighborhood.  I  once  urged  him  to  become  rich  and  have 
Sigmund  back  again.  He  said:  "  If  I  had  all  the  wealth  in 
Germany,  it  would  divide  us  further  still." 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  blank  which  Sigmund's 
absence  made  in  our  lives,  simply  because  it  was  too  great 
a  blank  to  describe.  Day  after  day  we  felt  it,  and  it  grew 
keener  and  the  wound  smarted  more  sharply.  One  cannot 
work  all  day  long,  and  in  our  leisure  hours  we  learned  to 
know  only  too  well  that  he  was  gone — and  gone  indeed. 
That  which  remained  to  us  was  the  "  Resignation,"  the 
"  miserable  assistant "  which  poor  Beethoven  indicated  with 
such  a  bitter  smile.  We  took  it  to  us  as  inmate  and  Eaus- 
frdund,  and  made  what  we  could  of  it. 


BOOK  V. 

V^  VICTI8. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  So  runs  the  world  away. 

KoNiGSALLEE,  N"o.  3,  coiild  Scarcely  be  called  a  happy 
establishment.  I  saw  much  of  its  inner  life,  and  what  I  saw 
made  me  feel  mortally  sad — envy,  hatred,  and  malice;  no 
hour  of  satisfaction;  my  sister's  bitter  laughs  and  sneers  and 
jibes  at  men  and  things;  Sir  Peter's  calm  consciousness  of 
his  power,  and  his  no  less  calm,  crushing,  unvarying  manner 
of  wielding  it — of  silently  and  horribly  making  it  felt.  Ade- 
laide's very  nature  appeared  to  have  changed.  From  a  lofty 
indifference  to  most  things,  to  sorrow  and  joy,  to  the  hopes, 
fears,  and  feelings  of  others,  she  had  become  eager,  earnest, 
passionate,  resenting  ill-usage,  strenuously  desiring  her  own 
way,  deeply  angry  when  she  could  not  get  it.  To  say  that 
Sir  Peter's  influence  upon  her  was  merely  productive  of  a 
negative  dislike  would  be  ridiculous.  It  was  productive  of 
an  intense,  active  hatred,  a  hatred  which  would  gladly,  if 
it  could,  have  vented  itself  in  deeds.  That  being  impossible, 
it  showed  itself  in  a  haughty,  unbroken  indifference  of  de- 
meanor which  it  seemed  to  be  Sir  Peter's  present  aim  in  some 
way  to  break  down,  for  not  only  did  she  hate  him — he 
hated  her. 

She  used  to  the  utmost  what  liberty  she  had.  She  was 
not  a  woman  to  talk  of  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  or  to 
own  that  she  had  miscalculated  her  game.  Her  life  was 
a  great  failure,  and  that  failure  had  been  brought  home  to 
her  mind  in  a  mercilessly  short  space  of  time;  but  of  what 
use  to  bewail  it?  She  was  not  yet  conquered.  The  bitter- 
ness of  spirit  which  she  carried  about  with  her  took  the  form 

217 


118  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

of  a  scoffing  pessimism.  A  hard  laugh  at  the  things  whicli 
made  other  people  shake  their  heads  and  uplift  their  hands; 
a  ready  scoff  at  all  tenderness;  a  sneer  at  anything  which 
could  by  any  stretch  of  imagination  be  called  good;  a  deter- 
mined running  up  of  what  was  hard,  sordid,  and  worldly, 
and  a  persistent  and  utter  skepticism  as  to  the  existence  of 
the  reverse  of  those  things;  such  was  now  the  yea,  yea,  and 
nay,  nay  of  her  communication. 

To  a  certain  extent  she  had  what  she  had  sold  herself  for: 
outside  pomp  and  show  in  plenty — carriages,  horses,  servants, 
jewels,  and  clothes.  Sir  Peter  liked,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, "  to  see  my  lady  blaze  away  " — only  she  must  blaze  away 
in  his  fashion,  not  hers.  He  declared  he  did  not  know  how 
long  he  might  remain  in  Elberthal;  spoke  vaguely  of  "  busi- 
ness at  home,"  about  which  he  was  waiting  to  hear,  and  said 
that  until  he  heard  the  news  he  wanted  he  could  not  move 
from  the  place  he  was  in.  He  was  in  excellent  spirits  at 
seeing  his  wife  chafing  under  the  confinement  to  a  place  she 
detested,  and  appeared  to  find  life  sweet. 

Meanwhile  she,  using  her  liberty,  as  I  said,  to  the  utmost 
extent,  had  soon  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  fastest  set  in 
Elberthal. 

There  was  a  fast  set  there  as  there  was  a  musical  set,  an 
artistic  set,  a  religious  set,  a  free-thinking  set;  for  though 
it  was  not  so  large  or  so  rich  as  many  dull,  wealthy  towns  in 
England,  it  presented  from  its  mixed  inhabitants  various 
phases  of  society. 

This  set  into  which  Adelaide  had  thrown  herself  was  the 
fast  one — a  coterie  of  officers,  artists,  the  richer  merchants 
and  bankers,  medical  men,  literati,  and  the  young  (and  some- 
times old)  wives,  sisters,  and  daughters  of  the  same,  many  of 
them  priding  themselves  upon  not  being  natives  of  Elberthal, 
but  coming  from  larger  and  gayer  towns — Berlin,  Dresden, 
Hamburg,  Frankfurt,  and  others. 

They  led  a  gay  enough  life  among  themselves — a  life  of 
theater,  concert,  and  opera-going,  of  dances — private  at  home, 
public  at  the  Malkasten  or  Artists'  Club — flirtations,  mar- 
riages, engagements,  disappointments,  the  usual  dreary  and 
monotonous  round.  They  considered  themselves  the  only 
society  worthy  the  name  in  Elberthal,  and  whoever  was  not 
of  their  set  was  niemand. 

I  was  partly  dragged,  partly  I  went  to  a  certain  extent 
of  my  own  will,  into  this  vortex.     I  felt  myself  to  have 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  219 

earned  a  larger  experience  now  of  life  and  life's  realities. 
I  questioned  when  I  should  once  have  discreetly  inclined 
the  head  and  held  my  peace.  I  had  a  mind  to  examine  this 
clique  and  the  characters  of  some  of  its  units  and  see  in  what 
it  was  superior  to  some  other  acquaintances  (in  an  humbler 
sphere)  with  whom  my  lot  had  been  cast.  As  time  went  on 
I  found  the  points  of  superiority  to  decrease — those  of  in- 
feriority rapidly  to  increase. 

I  troubled  myself  little  about  them  and  their  opinions. 
My  joys  and  griefs,  hopes  and  fears,  lay  so  entirely  outside 
their  circle  that  I  scarce  noticed  whether  they  noticed  me 
or  not.  I  felt  and  behaved  coldly  toward  them!  to  the 
women  because  their  voices  never  had  the  ring  of  genuine 
liking  in  speaking  to  me;  to  the  men  because  I  found  them, 
as  a  rule,  shallow,  ignorant,  and  pretentious;  repellent  to  me, 
as  I  dare  say  I,  with  my  inability  to  understand  them,  was 
to  them.  I  saw  most  men  and  things  through  a  distort- 
ing glass;  that  of  contrast,  conscious  or  unconscious,  with 
Courvoisier. 

My  musician,  I  reasoned,  wrongly  or  rightly,  had  three 
times  their  wit,  three  times  their  good  looks,  manners,  and 
information,  and  many  times  three  times  their  common  sense, 
as  well  as  a  Juster  appreciation  of  his  own  merits;  besides 
which,  my  musician  was  not  a  person  whose  acquaintance 
and  esteem  were  to  be  had  for  the  asking — or  even  for  a  great 
deal  more  than  the  asking,  while  it  seemed  that  these  young 
gentlemen  gave  their  society  to  anyone  who  could  live  in 
a  certain  style  and  talk  a  certain  argot,  and  their  esteem  to 
everyone  who  could  give  them  often  enough  the  savory  meat 
that  their  souls  loved,  and  the  wine  of  a  certain  quality  which 
made  glad  their  hearts  and  rendered  them  of  a  cheerful 
countenance. 

But  my  chief  reason  for  mixing  with  people  who  were  cer- 
tainly, as  a  rule,  utterly  distasteful  and  repugnant  to  me, 
was  because  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  Adelaide  alone.  I 
pitied  her  in  her  lonely  and  alienated  misery;  and  I  knew  that 
it  was  some  small  solace  to  her  to  have  me  with  her. 

The  tale  of  one  day  will  give  an  approximate  idea  of  most 
of  the  days  I  spent  with  her.  I  was  at  the  time  staying  with 
her.  Our  hours  were  late.  Breakfast  was  not  over  till  ten, 
that  is,  by  Adelaide  and  myself.  Sir  Peter  was  an  exceed- 
ingly active  person,  both  in  mind  and  body,  who  saw  after 
the  management  of  his  affairs  in  England  in  the  minutest 


220  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

manner  that  absence  would  allow.  Toward  half-past  eleven 
he  strolled  into  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  and  asked 
what  we  were  doing. 

"  Looking  over  costumes,"  said  I,  as  Adelaide  made  no 
answer,  and  I  raised  my  eyes  from  some  colored  illustrations. 

"  Costumes — what  kind  of  costumes?  " 

"  Costumes  for  the  maskenball,"  I  answered,  taking  refuge 
in  brevity  of  reply. 

"  Oh! "  He  paused.  Then,  turning  suddenly  to  Ade- 
laide: 

"  And  what  is  this  entertainment,  my  lady?  " 

"  The  Carnival  Ball,"  said  she  almost  inaudibly,  between 
her  closed  lips,  as  she  shut  the  book  of  illustrations,  pushed 
it  away  from  her,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  And  you  think  you  would  like  to  go  to  the  Carnival  Ball, 
hey?" 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  said  she,  as  she  stroked  her  lap-dog  with 
a  long,  white  hand  on  which  glittered  many  rings,  and 
steadily  avoided  looking  at  him.  She  did  wish  to  go  to  the 
ball,  but  she  knew  that  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that  if  she  dis- 
played any  such  desire  he  would  prevent  it.  Despite  her 
curt  reply  she  foresaw  impending  the  occurrence  which  she 
most  of  anything  disliked — a  conversation  with  Sir  Peter. 
He  placed  himself  in  our  midst  and  requested  to  look  at  the 
pictures.  In  silence  I  handed  him  the  book.  I  never  could 
force  myself  to  smile  when  he  was  there,  nor  overcome  a  cer- 
tain restraint  of  demeanor,  which  rather  pleased  and  flattered 
him  than  otherwise.  He  glanced  sharply  around  in  the 
silence  which  followed  his  Joining  our  company,  and,  turning 
over  the  illustrations,  said: 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  noise  when  I  came  in.  Don't 
let  me  interrupt  the  conversation." 

But  the  conversation  was  more  than  interrupted;  it  was 
dead — the  life  frozen  out  of  it  by  his  very  appearance. 

"  When  is  the  carnival,  and  when  does  this  piece  of  tom- 
foolery come  off?  "  he  inquired  with  winning  grace  of  diction. 

"  The  carnival  begins  this  year  on  the  26th  of  February. 
The  ball  is  on  the  27th,"  said  I,  confining  myself  to  facts 
and  figures. 

"  And  how  do  vou  get  there?    By  paying?  " 

"Well,  you  have  to  pay— yes.  But  you  must  getyoui 
tickets  from  some  member  of  the  Malkasten  Club.  It  is  the 
artists'  ball,  and  they  arrange  all." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  321 

"H'm!  Ha!  And  as  what  do  you  think  of  going,  Ade> 
laide?"  he  inquired,  turning  with  suddenness  toward  her. 

"  I  tell  you  I  had  not  thought  of  going — nor  thought  any- 
thing about  it.  Herr  von  Francius  sent  us  the  pictures,  and 
we  were  looking  over  them.     That  is  all." 

Sir  Peter  turned  over  the  pages  and  looked  at  the  common- 
place costumes  therein  suggested — Joan  of  Arc,  Cleopatra, 
Picardy  Peasant,  Maria  Stuart,  a  Snow  Queen,  and  all  the 
rest  of  them. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  anything  here  that  I  would  wear  if  I 
were  a  woman,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  book.  "  February, 
did  you  say?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  as  no  one  else  spoke. 

"  Well,  it  is  the  middle  of  January  now.  You  had  better 
be  looking  out  for  something;  but  don't  let  it  be  anything 
in  those  books.  Let  the  beggarly  daubers  see  how  English- 
women do  things." 

"  Do  you  intend  me  to  understand  that  you  wish  us  to  go 
to  the  ball?  "  inquired  Adelaide  in  an  icy  kind  of  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  almost  shouted  Sir  Peter.  Adelaide  could, 
despite  the  whip  and  rein  with  which  he  held  her,  exasperate 
and  irritate  him  by  no  means  more  thoroughly  than  by  pre- 
tending that  she  did  not  understand  his  grandiloquent  allu- 
sions, and  the  vague  grandness  of  the  commands  Avhich  he 
sometimes  gave.  "  I  mean  you  to  go,  and  your  little  sister 
here,  and  Arkwright  too.  I  don't  know  about  myself.  Now, 
I  am  going  to  ride.     Good-morning." 

As  Sir  Peter  went  out  Von  Francius  came  in.  Sir  Peter 
greeted  him  with  a  grin  and  exaggerated  expressions  of  affa- 
bility at  which  Von  Francius  looked  silently  scornful.  Sir 
Peter  added: 

"  These  two  ladies  are  puzzled  to  know  what  they  shall 
wear  at  the  Carnival  Ball.  Perhaps  you  can  give  them  your 
assistance." 

Then  he  went  away.  It  was  as  if  a  half -muzzled  wolf  had 
left  the  room. 

Von  Francius  had  come  to  give  me  my  lesson,  which  was 
now  generally  taken  at  my  sister's  house  and  in  her  presence, 
and  after  which  Von  Francius  usually  remained,  some  half 
hour  or  so,  in  conversation  with  one  or  both  of  us.  He  had 
become  an  intime  of  the  house.  I  was  glad  of  this,  and  that 
without  him  nothing  seemed  complete,  no  party  rounded, 
scarcely  an  evening  finished. 


222  THE  FIRST  VIOLm, 

When  he  was  not  with  us  in  the  evening  we  were  some- 
where where  he  was;  either  at  a  concert  or  a  probe,  or  at  the 
theater  or  opera,  or  one  of  the  fashionable  lectures  which 
were  then  in  season. 

It  could  hardly  be  said  that  Von  Francius  was  a  more  fre- 
quent visitor  than  some  other  men  at  the  house,  but  from 
the  first  his  attitude  with  regard  to  Adelaide  had  been  differ- 
ent. Some  of  those  other  men  were,  or  professed  to  be, 
desperately  in  love  with  the  beautiful  Englishwoman;  there 
was  always  a  half  gallantry  in  their  behavior,  a  homage  which 
might  not  be  very  earnest,  but  which  was  homage  all  the 
same,  to  a  beautiful  woman.  With  Von  Francius  it  had 
never  been  thus,  but  there  had  been  a  gravity  and  depth 
about  their  intercourse  which  pleased  me.  I  had  never  had 
the  least  apprehension  with  regard  to  those  other  people; 
she  might  amuse  herself  with  them;  it  would  only  be  amuse- 
ment, and  some  contempt. 

But  Von  Francius  was  a  man  of  another  mettle.  It  had 
etruck  me  almost  from  the  first  that  there  might  be  some 
danger,  and  I  was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  see  that  as  time 
went  on  and  his  visits  grew  more  and  more  frequent  and  the 
intimacy  deeper,  not  a  look,  not  a  sign  occurred  to  hint  that 
it  ever  was  or  would  be  more  than  acquaintance,  liking,  ap- 
preciation, friendship,  in  successive  stages.  Von  Francius 
had  never  from  the  first  treated  her  as  an  ordinary  person, 
laut  with  a  kind  of  tacit  understanding  that  something  not 
to  be  spoken  of  lay  behind  all  she  did  and  said,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  skeleton  in  Adelaide's  cupboard  was  more 
ghastly  to  look  upon  than  most  people's  secret  specters,  and 
that  it  persisted,  with  the  intrusiveness  and  want  of  breeding 
peculiar  to  guests  of  that  caliber,  in  thrusting  its  society  upon 
her  at  all  kinds  of  inconvenient  times. 

I  enjoyed  these  music  lessons,  I  must  confess.  Von  Fran- 
cius had  begun  to  teach  me  music  now,  as  well  as  singing. 
By  this  time  I  had  resigned  myself  to  the  conviction  that 
such  talent  as  I  might  have  lay  in  my  voice,  not  my  fingers, 
and  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  conditions  which  ordain  that 
in  every  human  life  shall  be  something  manque,  something 
incomplete. 

The  most  memorable  moments  with  me  have  been  those 
in  which  pain  and  pleasure,  yearning  and  satisfaction,  knowl- 
edge and  seeking  have  been  so  exquisitely  and  so  intangibly 
blended,  in  listening  to  some  deep  sonata,  some  stately  and 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  223- 

pathetic  old  ciacconna  or  gavotte,  some  concerto  or  symphony. 
The  thing  nearest  heaven  is  to  sit  apart  with  closed  eyes  while 
the  orchestra  or  the  individual  performer  interprets  for  one 
the  mystic  poetry,  or  the  dramatic  fire,  or  the  subtle  cobweb 
refinements  of  some  instrumental  poem. 

I  would  rather  have  composed  a  certain  little  "  Trau- 
merei "  of  Schumann's  or  a  "  Barcarole  "  of  Eubinstein's,  or 
a  sonata  of  Schubert's  than  have  won  all  the  laurels  of  Grisi, 
all  the  glory  of  Malibran  and  Jenny  Lind. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  I  told  myself  so,  and  yet  I  tried  so 
hard  in  my  halting,  bungling  way  to  worship  the  goddess  of 
my  idolatry  that  my  master  had  to  restrain  me. 

"Stop!"  said  he  this  morning,  when  I  had  been  weakly 
endeavoring  to  render  a  ciacconna  from  a  suite  of  Lachner's, 
which  had  moved  me  to  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears  at  the 
last  symphonic  concert.  "  Stop,  Fraulein  May!  Duty  first; 
your  voice  before  your  fingers." 

"  Let  me  try  once  again!  "  I  implored. 

He  shut  up  the  music  and  took  it  from  the  desk. 

"  Enthehren  sollst  du;  sollst  entbehren!  "  said  he  dr}'ly. 

I  took  my  lesson  and  then  practiced  shakes  for  an  hour, 
while  he  talked  to  Adelaide;  and  then,  she  being  summoned 
to  visitors,  he  went  away. 

Later  I  found  Adelaide  in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  visitors — 
Herr  Hauptmann  This,  Herr  Lieutenant  That,  Herr  Maler 
The  Other,  Herr  Concertmeister  So-and-So — for  Von  Fran- 
cius  was  not  the  only  musician  who  followed  in  her  train. 
But  there  I  am  wrong.  He  did  not  follow  in  her  train;  he 
might  stand  aside  and  watch  the  others  who  did;  but  follow- 
ing was  not  in  his  line. 

There  were  ladies  there  too — gay  young  women,  who  rallied 
around  Lady  Le  Marchant  as  around  a  master  spirit  in  the 
art  of  Zeitvertreih. 

<  This  levee  lasted  till  the  bell  rang  for  lunch,  when  we  went 
into  the  dining  room,  and  found  Sir  Peter  and  his  secretary, 
young  Arkwright,  already  seated.  He — Arkwright — was  a 
good-natured,  tender-hearted  lad,  devoted  to  Adelaide.  I  do 
not  think  he  was  very  happy  or  very  well  satisfied  with  his 
place,  but  from  his  salary  he  half  supported  a  mother  and 
sister,  and  so  was  fain  to  "  grin  and  bear  it." 

Sir  Peter  was  always  exceedingly  afi'ectionate  to  me.  I 
hated  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  him,  and  while  I  detested 
him^,  was  also  conscious  of  an  unheroic  fear  of  him.     For 


224  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Adelaide's  sake  I  was  as  attentive  to  him  as  I  could  make 
myself,  in  order  to  free  her  a  little  from  his  surveillance,  for 
poor  Adelaide  Wedderburn,  with  her  few  pounds  of  annual 
pocket-money  and  her  proud,  restless,  ambitious  spirit,  had 
been  a  free,  eoniented  woman  in  comparison  v/ith  Lady  Le 
Merchant. 

On  the  day  in  question  he  was  particularly  amiable,  called 
me  "  my  dear  '"  every  time  he  spoke  to  me,  and  complimented 
me  upon  my  good  looks,  telling  me  I  was  growing  monstrous 
handsome — ay,  devihsh  handsome,  by  Gad!  far  outstripping 
my  lady,  who  had  gone  off  dreadfully  in  her  good  looks, 
hadn't  she.  Arkvi'right? 

Poor  xVrkwright,  tingling  with  a  scorching  blush,  and  ready 
to  sink  through  the  floor  with  confusion,  stammered  out  that 
he  had  never  thought  of  venturing  to  remark  upon  my  Lady 
Le  Marchant's  looks. 

"  What  a  lie,  iVrkwright!  You  know  you  watch  her  as  if 
she  was  the  apple  of  your  eye,"  chuckled  Sir  Peter,  smiling 
round  upon  the  company  with  his  cold,  glittering  eyes. 
"  What  are  you  blushing  so  for,  my  pretty  May?  Isn't 
there  a  song  something  about  my  pretty  May,  my  dearest 
May,  eh?" 

"  My  pretty  Jane,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  I,  nobly  tak- 
ing his  attention  upon  myself,  while  Adelaide  sat  motionless 
and  white  as  marble,  and  Arkwright  cooled  down  somewhat 
from  his  state  of  shame  and  anguish  at  being  called  upon  to 
decide  which  of  us  echpsed  the  other  in  good  looks. 

"Pretty  Jane!  Who  ever  heard  of  a  pretty  Jane?"  said 
Sir  Peter.  "  If  it  isn't  May,  it  ought  to  be.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  a  Charming  May." 

"  The  month — not  a  person." 

"  Pretty  Jane,  indeed!  You  must  sing  me  that  after  lunch, 
and  then  we  can  see  whether  the  song  wa,'^  pretty  or  not,  my 
dear,  eh  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  I  do  like.  My  lady  here  seems  to  have  lost  her  voice 
lately.  I  can't  ir:agine  the  reason.  I  am  sure  she  has  every- 
thing to  make  her  sing  for  joy;  have  you  not,  my  dear?  " 

"  Everything,  and  more  than  everything,"  replies  my  lady 
laconically. 

"And  she  has  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  too;  loves  those 
whom  she  ought  to  love,  and  despises  those  whom  she  ought 
to  despise.     She  always  has  done,  from  her  infancy  up  to  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIU.  225 

time  when  she  loved  me  and  despised  public  opinion  for  my 
sake." 

The  last  remark  was  uttered  in  tones  of  deeper  malignity, 
while  the  eyes  began  to  glare,  and  the  under  lip  to  droop,  and 
the  sharp  eye-teeth,  which  lent  such  a  very  emphatic  point  to 
all  Sir  Peter's  smiles,  sneers,  and  facial  movements  in  general, 
gleamed. 

Adelaide's  lips  quivered  for  a  second;  her  color  momen- 
tarily faded. 

In  this  kind  of  light  and  agreeable  badinage  the  meal 
passed  over,  and  we  were  followed  into  the  drawing  room  by 
Sir  Peter,  loudly  demanding  "  '  My  Pretty  Jane  ' — or  May,  or 
whatever  it  was." 

"  We  are  going  out,"  said  my  lady.  "  You  can  have  it 
another  time.  May  cannot  sing  the  moment  she  has  finished 
lunch." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter;  and  inspired 
by  an  agreeable  and  playful  humor,  he  patted  his  wife's  shoul- 
der and  pinched  her  ear. 

The  color  fled  from  her  very  lips  and  she  stood  pale  and 
rigid  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  I  interpreted  to  mean  a 
shuddering  recoil,  stopped  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

Sir  Peter  turned  with  an  engaging  laugh  to  me: 

"  Miss  May — bonny  May — made  me  a  promise,  and  she 
must  keep  it;  or  if  she  doesn't,  I  shall  take  the  usual  forfeit. 
We  know  what  that  is.  Upon  my  word,  I  almost  wish  she 
would  break  her  promise." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  break  my  promise,"  said  I,  hastening  to 
the  piano,  and  then  and  there  singing  "  My  Pretty  Jane,"  and 
one  or  two  others,  after  which  he  released  us,  chuckling  at 
having  contrived  to  keep  my  lady  so  long  waiting  for  her 
drive. 

The  afternoon's  programme  was,  I  confess,  not  without  at- 
traction to  me;  for  I  knew  that  I  was  pretty,  and  I  had  not 
one  of  the  strong  and  powerful  minds  which  remained 
undated  bv  admiration  and  undepressed  by  the  absence 
of  it. 

We  drove  to  the  picture  exhibitions,  and  at  both  of  them 
had  a  little  crowd  attending  us.  That  crowd  consisted  chiefly 
of  admirers,  or  professed  admirers  of  my  sister,  with  Von 
Francius  in  addition,  who  dropped  in  at  the  first  exhibition. 

Von  Francius  did  not  attend  my  sister;  it  was  by  my  side 
that  he  remained  and  it  was  to  me  that  he  talked.    He  looked 


2^6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

on  at  the  men  who  were  around  her,  but  scarcely  addressed 
her  himself. 

There  was  a  clique  of  young  artists  who  chose  to  consider 
the  wealth  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant  as  fabulous,  and  who 
paid  court  to  his  wife  from  mixed  motives;  the  prevaiKng  one 
being  a  hope  that  she  would  be  smitten  by  some  picture  of 
theirs  at  a  fancy  price,  and  order  it  to  be  sent  home — as  if  she 
ever  saw  with  anything  beyond  the  most  superficial  outward 
eye  those  pictures,  and  as  if  it  lay  in  her  power  to  order  any 
one,  even  the  smallest  and  meanest  of  them.  These  ingenu- 
ous artists  had  yet  to  learn  that  Sir  Peter's  picture  purchases 
were  formed  from  his  own  judgment,  through  the  medium  of 
himself  or  his  secretary,  armed  with  strict  injunctions  as  to 
price,  and  upon  the  most  purely  practical  and  businesslike 
principles — not  in  the  least  at  the  caprice  of  his  wife. 

We  went  to  the  larger  gallery  last.  As  we  entered  it  I 
turned  aside  with  Von  Francius  to  look  at  a  picture  in  a  small 
back  room,  and  when  we  turned  to  follow  the  others,  they  had 
all  gone  forward  into  the  large  room;  but  standing  at  the 
door  by  which  we  had  entered,  and  looking  calmly  after  us, 
was  Courvoisier. 

A  shock  thrilled  me.  It  was  some  time  since  I  had  seen 
him;  for  I  had  scarcely  been  at  my  lodgings  for  a  fortnight, 
and  we  had  had  no  hauptproben  lately.  I  had  heard  some 
rumor  that  important  things — or,  as  Frau  Lutzler  gracefully 
expressed  it,  was  wichtiges — had  taken  place  between  Von 
Francius  and  the  kapelle,  and  that  Courvoisier  had  taken  a 
leading  part  in  the  affair.  To-day  the  greeting  between  the 
two  men  was  a  cordial  if  a  brief  one. 

Eugen's  eyes  scarcely  fell  upon  me;  he  included  me  in  his 
bow — that  was  all.  All  my  little  day-dream  of  growing  self- 
complacency  was  shattered,  scattered;  the  old  feeling  of  sore- 
ness, smallness,  wounded  pride,  and  bruised  self-esteem  came 
back  again.  I  felt  a  wild,  angry  desire  to  compel  some  other 
glance  from  those  eyes  than  that  exasperating  one  of  quiet 
indifference.  I  felt  it  like  a  lash  every  time  I  encountered  it. 
Its  very  coolness  and  absence  of  emotion  stung  me  and  made 
me  quiver. 

We  and  Courvoisier  entered  the  large  room  at  the  same 
time.  While  Adelaide  was  languidly  making  its  circuit.  Von 
Francius  and  I  sat  upon  the  ottoman  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  I  watched  Eugen,  even  if  he  took  no  notice  of  me— 
watched  him  till  every  f eehng  of  rest,  every  hard-won  convio- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  227 

tion  of  indifference  to  him,  and  feeling  of  regard  conquered, 
came  tumbling  down  in  ignominious  ruins.  I  knew  he  had 
had  a  fiery  trial.  His  child,  for  whom  I  used  to  watch  his 
adoration  with  a  dull  kind  of  envy,  had  left  him.  There  was 
some  mystery  about  it,  and  much  pain.  Frau  Lutzler  had  be- 
gun to  tell  me  a  long  story  culled  from  one  told  her  by  Frau 
Schmidt,  and  I  had  stopped  her,  but  knew  that  "  Herr  Cour-' 
voisier  was  not  like  the  same  man  any  more." 

That  trouble  was  visible  in  firmly  marked  lines,  even  now; 
he  looked  subdued,  older,  and  his  face  was  thin  and  worn. 
Yet  never  had  I  noticed  so  plainly  before  the  bright  light  of 
intellect  in  his  eye;  the  noble  stamp  of  mind  upon  his  brow. 
There  was  more  than  the  grace  of  a  kindly  nature  in  the  pleas- 
ant curve  of  the  lips — there  was  thought,  power,  intellectual 
strength.  I  compared  him  with  the  young  men  who  were  at 
this  moment  dangling  round  my  sister.  Not  one  among  them 
could  approach  him — not  merely  in  stature  and  breadth  and 
the  natural  grace  and  dignity  of  carriage,  but  in  far  better 
things — in  the  mind  that  dominates  sense;  the  will  that  holds 
back  passion  with  a  hand  as  strong  and  firm  as  that  of  a 
master  over  the  dog  whom  he  chooses  to  obey  him. 

This  man — I  write  from  knowledge — had  the  capacity  to 
appreciate  and  enjoy  life — to  taste  its  pleasures — ^never  to  ex- 
cess, but  with  no  ascetic's  lips.  But  the  natural  prompting — • 
Ihe  moral  "  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,"  was  held  back  with  a 
ruthless  hand,  with  chain  of  iron,  and  biting  thong  to  chastise 
pitilessly  each  restive  movement.  He  dreed  out  his  weird 
most  thoroughly,  and  drank  the  cup  presented  to  him  to  the 
last  dregs. 

When  the  weird  is  very  long  and  hard,  when  the  flavor  of 
the  cup  is  exceeding  bitter,  this  process  leaves  its  effects  in 
the  form  of  sobered  mien,  gathering  wrinkles,  and  a  perma- 
nent shadow  on  the  brow,  and  in  the  eyes.  So  it  was  with 
him. 

He  went  round  the  room,  looking  at  a  picture  here  and 
there  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur — then  pausing  before  the 
one  which  Von  Francius  had  brought  me  to  look  at  on  Christ- 
mas day,  Courvoisier,  folding  his  arms,  stood  before  it  and 
surveyed  it,  straightly,  and  without  moving  a  muscle;  coolly, 
criticisingly,  and  very  fastidiously.  The  &Za,se-looking  indi- 
vidual in  the  foreground  received,  I  saw,  a  share  of  his  atten- 
tion— the  artist,  too,  in  the  background;  the  model,  with  the 
white  dress.  Oriental  fan,  bare  arms,  and  half-bored,  half- 


228  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

cynic  look.  He  looked  at  tliem  all  long — attentively — then 
turned  away;  the  only  token  of  approval  or  disapproval  which 
he  vouchsafed  being  a  slight  smile  and  a  slight  shrug,  both  so 
very  slight  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible.  Then  he  passed 
on — glanced  at  some  other  pictures — at  my  sister,  on  whom 
his  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  as  if  he  thought  that  she  at  least 
made  a  very  beautiful  picture;  then  out  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  "  said  Von  Francius,  quite  softly  to 
me. 

I  started  violently.  I  had  utterly  forgotten  that  he  was  at 
my  side,  and  I  know  not  what  tales  my  face  had  been  telling. 
I  turned  to  find  the  dark  and  impenetrable  eyes  of  Von  Fran- 
cius fixed  on  me. 

"  A  little,"  I  said. 

"  Then  you  know  a  generous,  high-minded  man — a  man 
who  has  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself — and  a  man  to 
whom  I  made  an  apology  the  other  day  with  pleasure." 

My  heart  M^armed.  This  praise  of  Eugen  by  a  man  whom 
I  admired  so  devotedly  as  I  did  Max  von  Francius  seemed  to 
put  me  right  with  myself  and  the  world. 

Soon  afterward  we  left  the  exhibition,  and  while  the  others 
went  away  it  appeared  somehow  by  the  merest  casualty  that 
Von  Francius  was  asked  to  drive  back  with  us  and  have  after- 
noon tea,  englischerweise — which  he  did,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

After  tea  he  left  for  an  orchestra  probe  to  the  next  Satur- 
day's concert;  but  with  an  Auf  wiedersehen,  for  the  probe  will 
not  last  long,  and  we  shall  meet  again  at  the  opera  and  later 
at  the  Malkasten  Ball. 

I  enjoyed  going  to  the  theater.  I  knew  my  dress  was 
pretty.  I  knew  that  I  looked  nice,  and  that  people  would 
look  at  me,  and  that  I,  too,  should  have  my  share  of  admira- 
tion and  compliments  as  a  scJione  Engldnderin. 

We  were  twenty  minutes  late — naturally.  All  the  people 
in  the  place  stare  at  us  and  whisper  about  us,  partly  because 
we  have  a  conspicuous  place — the  proscenium  lege  to  the 
right  of  the  stage;  partly  because  we  are  in  full  toilet — an 
almost  unprecedented  circumstance  in  that  homely  theater — 
partly,  I  suppose,  because  Adelaide  is  supremely  beautiful. 

Mr.  Arkwright  was  already  with  us.  Von  Francius  joined 
us  after  the  first  act,  and  remained  until  the  end.  Almost 
the  only  words  he  exchanged  with  Adelaide  were: 

"  Have  you  seen  this  Qper^i  before.  Lady  Le  Marchant?  " 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  229 

"No;  never." 

It  was  Auber's  merry  little  opera,  "  Des  Teufels  Antheil." 
The  play  was  played.  Von  Francius  was  beside  me.  When- 
ever I  looked  down  I  saw  Eugen,  with  the  same  calm,  placid 
indifference  upon  his  face;  and  again  I  felt  the  old  sensation 
of  soreness,  shame,  and  humiliation.  I  feel  wrought  up  to  a 
great  pitch  of  nervous  excitement  when  we  leave  the  theater 
and  drive  to  the  Malkasten,  where  there  is  more  music — dance 
music — and  where  the  ball  is  at  its  height.  And  in  a  few  mo- 
ments I  find  myself  whirling  down  the  room  in  the  arms  of 
Von  Francius,  to  the  music  of  "  Mein  schonster  Tag  in 
Baden,"  and  wishing  very  earnestly  that  the  heart-sickness  I 
feel  would  make  me  ill  or  faint,  or  anything  that  would  s«nd 
me  home  to  quietness  and — him.  But  it  does  not  have  the 
desired  effect.  I  am  in  a  fever;  I  am  all  too  vividly  conscious, 
and  people  tell  me  how  well  I  am  looking,  and  that  rosy 
cheeks  become  me  better  than  pale  ones. 

They  are  merry  parties,  these  dances  at  the  Malkasten,  in 
the  quaintly  decorated  saal  of  the  artists'  clubhouse.  There 
is  a  certain  license  in  the  dress.  Velvet  coats,  and  coats,  too, 
in  many  colors,  green  and  prune  and  claret,  vying  with  black, 
are  not  tabooed.  There  are  various  uniforms  of  hussars,  in- 
fantry, and  uhlans,  and  some  of  the  women,  too,  are  dressed 
in  a  certain  fantastically  picturesque  style  to  please  their  artist 
brothers  or  fiances. 

The  dancing  gets  faster,  and  the  festivities  are  kept  up  late. 
Songs  are  sung  which  perhaps  would  not  be  heard  in  a  quiet 
drawing  room;  a  little  acting  is  done  with  them.  Music  is 
played,  and  Von  Francius,  in  a  vagrant  mood,  sits  down  and 
improvises  a  fitful,  stormy  kind  of  fantasia,  which  in  itself 
and  in  his  playing  puts  me  much  in  mind  of  the  weird  per- 
formances of  the  Abbate  Liszt. 

I  at  least  hear  another  note  than  of  yore,  another  touch. 
The  soul  that  it  wanted  seems  gradually  creeping  into  it.  He 
tells  a  strange  story  upon  the  quivering  keys — it  is  becoming 
tragic,  sad,  pathetic.  He  says  hastily  to  me  and  in  an  under- 
tone: "  Fraulein  May,  this  is  a  thought  of  one  of  your  own 
poets: 

"  '  How  sad,  and  mad,  and  bad  it  was, 
And  yet  how  it  was  sweet.'  " 

I  am  almost  in  tears,  and  every  face  is  affording  illustra- 
tions for  "  The  Expressions  of  the  Emotions  in  Men  and 


230  TEE  FIRST  YIOLm. 

"Women,"  when  it  suddenly  breaks  off  witli  a  loud,  Ha!  ha! 
ha!  which  sounds  as  if  it  came  from  a  human  voice,  and  jars 
upon  me,  and  then  he  breaks  into  a  waltz,  pushing  the  aston- 
ished musicians  aside,  and  telling  the  company  to  dance  while 
he  pipes. 

A  mad  dance  to  a  mad  tune.  He  plays  and  plays  on,  ever 
faster,  and  ever  a  wilder  measure,  with  strange  eerie  clanging 
chords  in  it  which  are  not  like  dance  notes,  until  Adelaide 
prepares  to  go,  and  then  he  suddenly  ceases,  springs  up,  and 
comes  with  us  to  our  carriage.  Adelaide  looks  white  and 
worn. 

Again  at  the  carriage  door,  "  a  pair  of  words  "  passes  be- 
tween them. 

"Milady  is  tired?"  from  him,  in  a  courteous  tone,  as  his 
dark  eyes  dwell  upon  her  face. 

"  Thanks,  Herr  Direktor,  I  am  generally  tired,"  from  her, 
with  a  slight  smile,  as  she  folds  her  shawl  across  her  breast 
with  one  hand,  and  extends  the  other  to  him. 

"Milady,  adieu." 

"  Adieu,  Herr  von  Francius." 

The  ball  is  over,  and  I  think  we  have  all  had  enough  of  it. 


CHAPTER  n. 

THE  CAENIVAL  BALL. 

"  Aeen't  you  coming  to  the  ball,  Eugen?  '* 

'a?    No." 

"  I  would  if  I  were  you." 

"  But  you  are  yourself,  you  see,  and  I  am  I.  What  was  it 
that  Heinrich  Mohr  in  *  The  Children  of  the  World '  was 
always  saying?  Ich  tin  ich,  und  setz  mich  selbst.  Ditto  me, 
that's  all." 

"  It  is  no  end  of  a  lark,"  I  pursued. 

"  My  larking  days  are  over." 

"  And  you  can  talk  to  anyone  you  like." 

"  I  am  going  to  talk  to  myself,  thanks.  I  have  long  wanted 
a  little  conversation  with  that  interesting  individual,  and 
while  you  are  masquerading,  I  will  be  doing  the  reverse.  By 
the  time  you  come  home  I  shall  be  so  thoroughly  self-investi- 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIK  231 

gated  and  set  to  rights  that  a  mere  look  at  me  will  shake  all 
the  frivolity  out  of  you." 

"  Miss  Wedderbum  will  be  there." 

"  I  hope  she  may  enjoy  it." 

"  At  least  she  will  look  so  lovely  that  she  will  make  others 
enjoy  it." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"You  won't  go — quite  certain?" 

"  Quite  certain,  mein  lieber.  Go  yourself,  and  may  you 
have  much  pleasure." 

Finding  that  he  was  in  earnest,  I  went  out  to  hire  one 
domino  and  purchase  one  mask,  instead  of  furnishing  myself, 
as  I  had  hoped,  with  two  of  each  of  those  requisites. 

It  was  Sunday,  the  first  day  of  the  carnival,  and  that  de- 
voted to  the  ball  of  the  season.  There  were  others  given,  but 
this  was  the  Malerball,  or  artists'  ball.  It  was  considered 
rather  select,  and  had  I  not  been  lucky  enough  to  have  one  or 
two  pupils,  members  of  the  club,  who  had  come  forward  with 
offerings  of  tickets,  I  might  have  tried  in  vain  to  gain 
admittance. 

Everybody  in  Elberthal  who  was  anybody  would  be  at  this 
ball.  I  had  already  been  at  one  like  it,  as  well  as  at  several 
of  the  less  select  and  rougher  entertainments,  and  I  found  a 
pleasure,  which  was  somewhat  strange  even  to  myself,  in 
standing  to  one  side  and  watching  the  motley  throng  and  the 
formal  procession  which  was  every  year  organized  by  the 
artists  who  had  the  management  of  the  proceedings. 

The  ball  began  at  the  timely  hour  of  seven;  about  nine  I 
enveloped  myself  in  my  domino,  and  took  my  way  across  the 
road  to  the  scene  of  the  festivities,  which  took  up  the  whole 
three  saals  of  the  Tonhalle. 

The  night  was  bitter  cold,  but  cold  with  that  rawness  which 
speaks  of  a  coming  thaw.  The  lamps  were  lighted,  and  de- 
spite the  cold  there  was  a  dense  crowd  of  watchers  round  the 
front  of  the  building  and  in  the  gardens,  with  cold,  inquisi- 
tive noses  flattened  against  the  long  glass  doors  through 
which  I  have  seen  the  people  stream  in  the  pleasant  May  even- 
ings after  the  concert  or  musikfest  into  the  illuminated 
gardens. 

The  last  time  I  had  been  in  the  big  saal  had  been  to  attend 
a  dry  probe  to  a  dry  concert — the  "  Erste  Walpurgisnacht " 
of  Mendelssohn.  The  scene  was  changed  now;  the  whole 
room  was  a  mob — "motley  the  only  wear."    It  was  full  to 


232  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

excess,  so  that  there  was  scarcely  room  to  move  ahout,  mucli 
less  for  dancing.  For  that  purpose  the  middle  saal  of  the 
three  had  been  set  aside,  or  rather  a  part  of  it  railed  off. 

I  felt  a  pleasant  sense  of  ease  and  well-being — a  security 
that  I  should  not  be  recognized,  as  I  had  drawn  the  pointed 
hood  of  my  domino  over  my  head,  and  enveloped  myself 
closely  in  its  ample  folds,  and  thus  I  could  survey  the  brilliant 
Maskenball,  as  I  surveyed  life,  from  a  quiet,  unnoticed  ob- 
scurity, and  witTiout  taking  part  in  its  active  affairs. 

There  was  music  going  on  as  I  entered.  It  could  scarcely 
be  heard  above  the  Babel  of  tongues  which  was  sounding. 
People  were  moving  as  well  as  they  could.  I  made  my  way 
slowly  and  unobtrusively  toward  the  upper  end  of  the  saal, 
intending  to  secure  a  place  on  the  great  orchestra,  and  thence 
survey  the  procession. 

I  recognized  dozens  of  people  whom  I  knew  personally,  or 
by  sight,  or  name,  transformed  from  sober  Ehenish  burgers, 
or  youths  of  the  period,  into  persons  and  creatures  whose  ap- 
propriateness or  inappropriateness  to  their  everyday  character 
it  gave  me  much  joy  to  witness.  The  most  foolish  young  man 
I  knew  was  attired  as  Cardinal  Eichelieu;  the  wisest,  in  cer- 
tain respects,  had  a  buffoon's  costume,  and  plagued  the  states- 
man and  churchman  grievously. 

By  degrees  I  made  my  way  through  the  mocking,  taunting, 
flouting,  many-colored  crowd,  to  the  orchestra,  and  gradually 
up  its  steps  until  I  stood  upon  a  fine  vantage  ground.  Near 
me  were  others;  I  looked  round.  One  party  seemed  to  keep 
very  much  together — a  party  which  for  richness  and  correct- 
ness of  costume  outshone  all  others  in  the  room.  Two  ladies, 
one  dark  and  one  fair,  were  dressed  as  Elsa  and  Ortrud.  A 
man,  whose  slight,  tall,  commanding  figure  I  soon  recognized, 
was  attired  in  the  blue  mantle,  silver  helm  and  harness  of 
Lohengrin  the  son  of  Percivale;  and  a  second  man,  too  bojdsh- 
looking  for  the  character,  was  masked  as  Frederic  of  Telra- 
mund.  Henry  the  Fowler  was  wanting,  but  the  group  was 
easily  to  be  recognized  as  personating  the  four  principal  char- 
acters from  Wagner's  great  opera. 

They  had  apparently  not  been  there  long,  for  they  had  not 
yet  unmasked.  I  had,  however,  no  difiiculty  in  recognizing 
any  of  them.  The  tall,  fair  girl  in  the  dress  of  Elsa  was  Miss 
Wedderbum;  the  Ortrud  was  Lady  Le  Marchant,  and  right 
well  she  looked  the  character.  Lohengrin  was  Von  Francius, 
and  Friedrich  von  Telramund  was  Mr.  Arkwright,  Sir  Peter's 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  233 

secretary.  Here  was  a  party  in  whom  I  could  take  some 
interest,  and  I  immediately  and  in  the  most  unprincipled 
manner  devoted  myself  to  watching  them — myself  unnoticed. 

"Who  in  all  that  motley  crowd  would  I  wish  to  be?"  I 
thought,  as  my  eyes  wandered  over  them. 

The  procession  was  just  forming;  the  voluptuous  music  of 
"Die  Tausend  und  eine  Nacht"  waltzes  was  floating  from 
the  gallery  and  through  the  room.  They  went  sweeping 
past — or  running,  or  jumping;  a  ballet-girl  whose  mustache 
had  been  too  precious  to  be  parted  with,  and  a  lady  of  the 
vielle  cour  beside  her,  nuns  and  corpses;  Christy  Minstrels 
^English,  these  last,  whose  motives  were  constantly  mis- 
understood), fools  and  astrologers,  Gretchens,  Clarchens, 
devils,  Egmonts,  Joans  of  Arc  enough  to  have  rescued  France 
a  dozen  times,  and  peasants  of  every  race:  Turks  and  Finns; 
American  Indians  and  Alfred  the  Great — it  was  tedious  and 
dazzling. 

Then  the  procession  was  got  into  order;  a  long  string  of 
German  legends,  all  the  misty  chronicle  of  Gudrun,  the 
"  Mbelungenlied  "  and  the  "  Rheingold  " — Siegfried  and 
Kriemhild — those  two  everlasting  figures  of  beauty  and  hero- 
ism, love  and  tragedy,  which  stand  forth  in  hues  of  pure 
brightness  that  no  time  can  dim;  Brunhild  and  Von  Tronje- 
Hagen — this  was  before  the  days  of  Bayreuth  and  the 
Tetralogy — Tannhauser  and  Lohengrin,  the  Loreley,  Walther 
von  der  Vogelweide,  the  two  Elizabeths  of  the  Wartburg, 
dozens  of  obscure  legends  and  figures  from  "  Volkslieder  " 
and  Folklore  which  I  did  not  recognize;  "  Dornroschen," 
Rubezahl;  and  the  music  to  which  they  marched  was  the 
melancholy  yet  noble  measure,  "  The  Last  Ten  of  the  Fourth 
Regiment." 

I  surveyed  the  masks  and  masquerading  for  some  time, 
keeping  my  eye  all  the  while  upon  the  party  near  me.  They 
presently  separated.  Lady  Le  Marchant  took  the  arm  which 
Von  Francius  offered  her,  and  they  went  down  the  steps. 
Miss  Wedderbum  and  the  young  secretary  were  left  alone.  I 
was  standing  near  them,  and  two  other  masks,  both  in 
domino,  hovered  about.  One  wore  a  white  domino  with  a 
scarlet  rosette  on  the  breast.  The  other  was  a  black  domino, 
closely  disguised,  who  looked  long  after  Von  Francius  and 
Lady  Le  Marchant,  and  presently  descended  the  orchestra 
steps  and  followed  in  their  wake. 

"Do  not  remain  with  me,  IVIr.  Arkwright,"  I  heard  ]\Iis3 


334  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Wedderbum   say.    "You   want  to  dance.    Go   and   enjoy 

yourself." 

"  I  could  not  think  of  leaving  you  alone.  Miss  "Wedder- 
"burn." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  could,  and  can.  I  am  not  going  to  move 
from  here.  I  want  to  look  on — not  to  dance.  You  will  find 
me  here  when  you  return." 

Again  she  urged  him  not  to  remain  with  her,  and  finally  he 
departed  in  search  of  amusement  among  the  crowd  below. 

Miss  "Wedderbum  was  now  alone.  She  turned;  her  eyes, 
through  her  mask,  met  mine  through  my  mask,  and  a  certain 
thrill  shot  through  me.  This  was  such  an  opportunity  as  I 
had  never  hoped  for,  and  I  told  myself  that  I  should  be  a 
great  fool  if  I  let  it  slip.  But  how  to  begin?  I  looked  at 
her.  She  was  very  beautiful,  this  young  English  girl,  with 
the  wonderful  blending  of  fire  and  softness  which  had  made 
me  from  the  first  think  her  one  of  the  most  attractive  women 
I  had  ever  seen. 

As  I  stood,  awkward  and  undecided,  she  beckoned  me  to 
her.  In  an  instant  I  was  at  her  side,  bowing  but  maintaining 
silence. 

"  You  are  Herr  Helfen,  nlchi  walir9  "  said  she  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  and  removed  my  mask.  "  How  did  you 
know  it?  " 

"  Something  in  your  figure  and  attitude.  Are  you  not 
dancing?  " 

"I— oh,  no!" 

"  Kor  I — I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  it.  I  never  felt  less 
like  dancing,  nor  less  like  a  masquerade."  Then — ^hesitat- 
ingly— "  Are  you  alone  to-night?  " 

"  Yes.     Eugen  would  not  come." 

"  He  will  not  be  here  at  all?  " 

"Not  at  all?" 

"  I  am  surprised." 

"  I  tried  to  persuade  him  to  come,"  said  I  apologetically. 
"But  he  would  not.  He  said  he  was  going  to  have  a  little 
conversation  at  home  with  himself." 

"  So!  "  She  turned  to  me  with  a  mounting  color,  which  I 
saw  flush  to  her  brow  above  her  mask,  and  with  parted 
lips. 

"  He  has  never  cared  for  anything  since  Sigmund  left  us/* 
I  continued. 

"  Sigmund — was  that  the  dear  little  boy?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  235 

•*  You  say  very  truly." 

"  Tell  me  about  Mm.  Was  not  his  father  very  fond  of 
him?" 

"  Fond!  I  never  saw  a  man  idolize  his  child  so  much.  It 
was  only  need — the  hardest  need  that  made  them  part." 

"  How — need  ?  You  do  not  mean  poverty  ?  "  said  she, 
somewhat  awe-struck. 

"  Oh,  no!  Moral  necessity.  I  do  not  know  the  reason.  I 
have  never  asked.     But  I  know  it  was  like  a  death-blow." 

"Ah!"  said  she,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  removed 
her  mask,  as  if  she  felt  it  stifling  her,  and  looked  me  in  the 
face  with  her  beautiful  clear  eyes. 

"Who  could  oblige  liim  to  part  with  his  own  child?  "  she 
asked. 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  mein  Frdulein.  What  I  do  know  is 
that  some  shadow  darkens  my  friend's  life  and  embitters  it — 
that  he  not  only  cannot  do  what  he  wishes,  but  is  forced  to  do 
what  he  hates — and  that  parting  was  one  of  the  things." 

She  looked  at  me  with  eagerness  for  some  moments;  then 
eaid  quickly: 

"  I  cannot  help  being  interested  in  all  this,  but  I  fancy  I 
ought  not  to  listen  to  it,  for — for — I  don't  think  he  would 
like  it.  He — he — I  believe  he  dislikes  me,  an(j.  perhaps  you 
had  better  say  no  more." 

"  Dislikes  you!  "  I  echoed.     "  Oh,  no!  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  he  does,"  she  repeated,  with  a  faint  smile,  which 
struggled  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of  pain,  and  then  was 
extinguished.  "  I  certainly  was  once  very  rude  to  him,  but 
I  should  not  have  thought  he  was  an  ungenerous  man — 
should  you?" 

"  He  is  not  ungenerous;  the  very  reverse;  he  is  too  gen- 
erous." 

"  It  does  not  matter,  I  suppose,"  said  she,  repressing  some 
emotion.  "  It  can  make  no  difference,  but  it  pains  me  to  be 
so  misunderstood  and  so  behaved  to  by  one  who  was  at  first  so 
kind  to  me — for  he  was  very  kind." 

"  Mein  Frdulein,"  said  I,  eager,  though  puzzled,  "  I  can- 
not explain  it;  it  is  as  great  a  mystery  to  me  as  to  you.  I 
know  nothing  of  his  past — nothing  of  what  he  has  been  or 
done;  nothing  of  who  he  is — only  of  one  thing  I  am  sure — 
that  he  is  not  what  he  seems  to  be.  He  may  be  called  Eugen 
Courvoisier,  or  he  may  call  himself  Eugen  Courvoisier;  he 
was  once  known  by  some  name  in  a  very  different  world  to 


236  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

that  lie  lives  in  now.  I  know  nothing  about  that,  but  1  know 
this — that  I  believe  in  him.  I  have  lived  more  than  three 
years  with  him;  he  is  true  and  honorable;  fantastically,  chiv- 
alrously honorable  "  (her  eyes  were  downcast  and  her  cheeks 
burning).     "  He  never  did  anything  false  or  dishonest " 

A  slight,  low,  sneering  laugh  at  my  right  hand  caused  me  to 
look  up.  That  figure  in  a  white  domino  with  a  black  mask, 
and  a  crimson  rosette  on  the  breast,  stood  leaning  up  against 
the  foot  of  the  organ,  but  other  figures  were  near;  the  laugh 
might  have  come  from  one  of  them;  it  might  have  nothing  to 
do  with  us  or  our  remarks.  I  went  on  in  a  vehement  and 
eager  tone: 

^'  He  is  what  we  Germans  call  a  ganzer  Kerl — ^thorough  in 
all — out  and  out  good.  Nothing  will  ever  make  me  believe 
otherwise.  Perhaps  the  mystery  will  never  be  cleared  up. 
It  doesn't  matter  to  me.  It  will  make  no  difference  in  my 
opinion  of  the  only  man  I  love." 

A  pause.  Miss  Wedderbum  was  looking  at  me;  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears;  her  face  strangely  moved.  Yes — she  loved 
him.  It  stood  confessed  in  the  very  strength  of  the  effort 
she  made  to  be  calm  and  composed.  As  she  opened  her  lipa 
t^  speak,  that  domino  that  I  mentioned  glided  from  her  place 
and  stooping  down  between  us,  whispered  or  murmured: 

"  You  are  a  fool  for  your  pains.  Believe  no  one — least  of  all 
those  who  look  most  worthy  of  belief.  He  is  not  honest;  he 
is  not  honorable.  It  is  from  shame  and  disgrace  that  he  hides 
himself.  Ask  him  if  he  remembers  the  20th  of  April  five 
years  ago;  you  will  hear  what  he  has  to  say  about  it,  and  how 
brave  and  honorable  he  looks." 

Swift  as  fire  the  words  were  said,  and  rapidly  as  the  same 
she  had  raised  herself  and  disappeared.  We  were  left  gazing 
at  each  other.  Miss  Wedderburn's  face  was  blanched — she 
stared  at  me  with  large  dilated  eyes,  and  at  last  in  a  low  voice 
of  anguish  and  apprehension  said: 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  mean?  " 

Her  voice  recalled  me  to  myself. 

"  It  may  mean  what  it  likes,"  said  I  calmly.  "  As  I  said, 
it  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  do  not  and  will  not  believe 
that  he  ever  did  anything  dishonorable." 

"  Do  you  not?  "  said  she  tremulously.  "  But^but — ^Anna 
Sartorius  does  know  something  of  him." 

"Who  is  Anna  Sartorius?" 
■    **  Why,  that  domino  who  spoke  to  us  just  now.    But  I  for* 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  237, 

got.  You  will  not  know  her..  She  wanted  long  ago  to  tell  me 
about  him,  and  I  would  not  let  her,  so  she  said  I  might  learn 
for  myself,  and  should  never  leave  off  until  I  knew  the  lesson 
by  heart.  I  think  she  has  kept  her  word,"  she  added  with  a 
heartsick  sigh. 

"  You  surely  would  not  believe  her  if  she  said  the  same 
thing  fifty  times  over,"  said  I,  not  very  reasonably,  certainly. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied  hesitatingly.  "  It  is  very 
difficult  to  know." 

"  Well,  I  would  not.  If  the  whole  world  accused  him  I 
would  believe  nothing  except  from  his  own  lips." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  all  about  Anna  Sartorius,"  said  she  slowly, 
and  she  looked  as  if  seeking  back  in  her  memory  to  remember 
some  dream.  I  stood  beside  her;  the  motley  crowd  ebbed 
and  flowed  beneath  us,  but  the  whisper  we  had  heard  had 
changed  everything;  and  yet,  no — to  me  not  changed,  but 
only  darkened  things. 

In  the  meantime  it  had  been  growing  later.  Our  conversa- 
tion, with  its  frequent  pauses,  had  taken  a  longer  time  than 
we  had  supposed.  The  crowd  was  thinning.  Some  of  the 
women  were  going. 

"  I  wonder  where  my  sister  is! "  observed  Miss  "Wedder- 
bum  rather  wearily.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  her  delicate 
head  drooped  as  if  it  were  overweighted  and  pulled  down  by 
the  superabundance  of  her  beautiful  chestnut  hair,  which 
came  rippling  and  waving  over  her  shoulders.  A  white  satin 
petticoat,  stiff  with  gold  embroidery;  a  long  trailing  blue 
mantle  of  heavy  brocade,  fastened  on  the  shoulders  with 
golden  clasps;  a  golden  circlet  in  the  gold  of  her  hair;  such 
was  the  dress,  and  right  royally  she  became  it.  She  looked  a 
vision  of  loveliness.  I  wondered  if  she  would  ever  act  Elsa  in 
reality;  she  would  be  assuredly  the  loveliest  representative  of 
that  fair  and  weak-minded  heroine  who  ever  trod  the  boards. 
Supposing  it  ever  came  to  pass  that  she  acted  Elsa  to  some- 
one else's  Lohengrin,  would  she  think  of  this  night?  Would 
she  remember  the  great  orchestra — and  me,  and  the  lights, 
and  the  people — our  words — a  whisper?    A  pause. 

"  But  where  can  Adelaide  be?  "  she  said  at  last.  "  I  have 
not  seen  them  since  they  left  us." 

"  They  are  there,"  said  I,  surveying  from  my  vantage- 
ground  the  thinning  ranks.  "  They  are  coming  up  here,  too. 
And  there  is  the  other  gentleman,  Graf  von  Telramund,  fol- 
lowing them." 


238  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

They  drew  up  to  the  foot  of  the  orchestra,  and  then  Mr. 
Arkwright  came  up  to  seek  us. 

"  Miss  Wedderbum,  Lady  Le  Marchant  is  tired  and  thinks 
it  is  time  to  be  going." 

"  So  am  I  tired,"  she  replied.  I  stepped  back,  but  before 
ehe  went  away  she  turned  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand: 

"  Good-night,  Herr  Helfen.  I,  too,  will  not  believe  with- 
out proof." 

We  shook  hands,  and  she  went  away. 

The  lamp  still  burning,  the  room  cold,  the  stove  extinct. 
Eugen  seated  motionless  near  it. 

"  Eugen,  art  thou  asleep?  " 

**  I  asleep,  my  dear  boy!    Well,  how  was  it?  " 

"  Eugen,  I  wish  you  had  been  there." 

"  Why?  "  He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  and  looked  at 
me.     His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eyes  too. 

"  Because  you  would  have  enjoyed  it.  I  did.  I  saw  Miss 
Wedderbum,  and  spoke  to  her.     She  looked  lovely." 

"  In  that  case  it  would  have  been  odd  indeed  if  you  had  not 
enjoyed  yourself." 

''  You  are  inexplicable." 

"It  is  bedtime,"  he  remarked,  rising  and  speaking,  as  I 
thought,  coldly. 

We  both  retired.  As  for  the  whisper,  frankly  and  honestly, 
I  did  not  give  it  another  thought. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm, 


2^9 


CHAPTER  III. 

aiAT'S    STORY. 


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Following  Arkwright,  I  joined  Adelaide  and  Von  Fran- 

cius  at  the  foot  of  the  orchestra.     She  had  sent  word  that  she 

was  tired.     Looking  at  her  I  thought  indeed  slie  must  be  very 

tired,  so  white,  so  sad  she  looked. 

"  Adelaide,''   I   expostulated,   "  why   did   you   remain  so 

long?" 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  know  it  Avas  so  late.     Come!  " 

"We  made  our  way  out  of  the  hall  through  the  veranda  to 

the  entrance.    Lady  Le  Marchant's  carriage,  it  seemed^  waa 


240  TEE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

ready  and  waiting.  It  was  a  pouring  night.  The  thaw  had 
begun.  The  steady  downpour  promised  a  cheerful  ending  to 
the  carnival  doings  of  the  Monday  and  Tuesday;  all  but  a  few 
homeless  or  persevering  wretches  had  been  driven  away.  We 
drove  away,  too.  I  noticed  that  the  "  good-night "  between 
Adelaide  and  Von  Francius  was  of  the  most  laconical  char- 
acter. They  barely  spoke,  did  not  shake  hands,  and  he  turned 
and  went  to  seek  his  cab  before  we  had  all  got  into  the 
carriage. 

Adelaide  uttered  not  a  word  during  our  drive  home,  and 
I,  leaning  back,  shut  my  eyes  and  lived  the  evening  over 
again.  Eugen's  friend  had  laughed  the  insidious  whisper  to 
scorn.  I  could  not  deal  so  summarily  with  it;  nor  could  I 
drive  the  words  of  it  out  of  my  head.  They  set  themselves 
to  the  tune  of  the  waltz,  and  rang  in  my  ears: 

"  He  is  not  honest;  he  is  not  honorable.  It  is  from  shame 
and  disgrace  that  he  is  hiding.  Ask  him  if  he  remembers 
the  20th  of  April  five  years  ago." 

The  carriage  stopped.  A  sleepy  servant  let  us  in.  Ade- 
laide, as  we  went  upstairs,  drew  me  into  her  dressing  room. 

"  A  moment,  May.     Have  you  enjoyed  yourself?  " 

"  H'm — well — yes  and  no.     And  you,  Adelaide?  " 

"  I  never  enjoy  myself  now,"  she  replied  very  gently.  "  I 
am  getting  used  to  that,  I  think." 

She  clasped  her  jeweled  hands  and  stood  by  the  lamp,  whose 
calm  light  hghted  her  calm  face,  showing  it  wasted  and 
unutterably  sad. 

Something — a  terror,  a  shrinking  as  from  a  strong  men- 
acing hand — shook  me. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Adelaide?  "  I  cried. 

"No.  Good-night,  dear  May.  Schlaf  woJiI,  as  they  say 
here." 

To  my  unbounded  astonishment  she  leaned  forward  and 
gave  me  a  gentle  kiss;  then,  still  holding  my  hand,  asked: 

"  Do  you  still  say  your  prayers,  May?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  What  do  you  say?  " 

"  Oh!  the  same  that  I  always  used  to  say;  they  are  better 
than  any  I  can  invent." 

"  Yes.  I  never  do  say  mine  now.  I  rather  think  I  am 
afraid  to  begin  again." 

"  Good-night,  Adelaide."  I  said  inaudibly,  and  she  loosed 
my  hand. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  241 

'  'At  the  door  I  turned.  She  was  still  standing  by  the  lamp; 
etill  her  face  wore  the  same  strange,  subdued  look.  With 
a  heart  oppressed  by  new  uneasiness  I  ieft  her. 

It  must  have  been  not  till  toward  dawn  that  I  fell  into  a 
sleep,  heavy,  but  not  quiet — filled  with  fantastic  dreams,  most 
of  which  vanished  as  soon  as  they  had  passed  my  mind.  But 
one  remained.  To  this  day  it  is  as  vivid  before  me  as  if  I 
had  actually  lived  through  it. 

Meseemed  again  to  be  at  the  Grafenbergerdahl,  again  to 
be  skating,  again  rescued — and  by  Eugen  Courvoisier.  But 
suddenly  the  scene  changed;  from  a  smooth  sheet  of  ice,  across 
which  the  wind  blew  nippingly,  and  above  which  the  stars 
twinkled  frostily,  there  was  a  huge  waste  of  water  which  raged, 
while  a  tempest  howled  around — the  clear  moon  was  veiled, 
all  was  darkness  and  chaos.  He  saved  me,  not  by  skating 
with  me  to  the  shore,  but  by  clinging  with  me  to  some  float- 
ing wood  until  we  drove  upon  a  bank  and  landed.  But 
scarcely  had  we  set  foot  upon  the  ground  than  all  was  changed 
again.  I  was  alone,  seated  upon  a  bench  in  the  Hofgarten, 
on  a  spring  afternoon.  It  was  May;  the  chestnuts  and  acacias 
were  in  full  bloom,  and  the  latter  made  the  air  heavy  with 
their  fragrance.  The  nightingales  sung  richly,  and  I  sat 
looking,  from  beneath  the  shade  of  a  great  tree,  upon  the  fleet- 
ing Rhine,  which  glided  by  almost  past  my  feet.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  been  sad — so  sad  as  never  before.  A  deep 
weight  appeared  to  have  been  just  removed  from  my  heart, 
and  yet  so  heavy  had  it  been  that  I  could  not  at  once  recover 
from  its  pressure;  and  even  then,  in  the  sunshine,  and  feeling 
that  I  had  no  single  cause  for  care  or  grief,  I  was  unhappy, 
with  a  reflex  mournfulness. 

And  as  I  sat  thus,  it  seemed  that  someone  came  and  sat 
beside  me  without  speaking,  and  I  did  not  turn  to  look  at 
him;  but  ever  as  I  sat  there  and  felt  that  he  was  beside  me, 
the  sadness  lifted  from  my  heart,  until  it  grew  so  full  of  joy 
that  tears  rose  to  my  eyes.  Then  he  who  was  beside  me  placed 
his  hand  upon  mine,  and  I  looked  at  him.  It  was  Eugen 
Courvoisier.  His  face  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  sadness;  but 
I  knew  that  he  loved  me,  though  he  said  but  one  word,  "  For- 
give! "  to  which  I  answered,  "Can  you  forgive?"  But  I 
knew  that  I  alluded  to  something  much  deeper  than  that  silly 
little  episode  of  having  cut  him  at  the  theater.  He  bowed 
his  head;  and  then  I  thought  I  began  to  weep,  covering  my 
face  with  my  hands;  but  they  were  tears  of  exquisite  joy,  and 


242  TEE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

the  peace  at  my  heart  was  the  most  entire  I  had  ever  felt. 
And  he  loosened  my  hands  and  drew  me  to  him  and  kissed 
me,  saying  "My  love! "  And  as  I  felt — yes,  actually  felt — • 
the  pressure  of  his  hps  upon  mine,  and  felt  the  spring  shin- 
ing upon  me,  and  heard  the  very  echo  of  the  twitter  of  the 
birds,  saw  the  light  fall  upon  the  water,  and  smelled  the  scent 
of  the  acacias,  and  saw  the  Lotusblume  as  she 

"  Duftet  und  weinet  und  zittert 
Vor  Liebe  und  Liebesweh," 

I  awoke  and  confronted  a  gray  February  morning,  felt  a  raw 
chilliness  in  the  air,  heard  a  cold,  pitiless  rain  driven  against 
the  window;  knew  that  my  head  ached,  my  heart  harmonized 
therewith;  that  I  was  awake,  not  in  a  dream;  that  there  had 
been  no  spring  morning,  no  acacias,  no  nightingales;  above 
aJl,  no  love — remembered  last  night,  and  roused  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  another  day,  the  necessity  of  waking  up  and 
living  on. 

Nor  could  I  rest  or  sleep.  I  rose  and  contemplated 
through  the  window  the  driving  rain  and  the  soaking  street, 
the  sorrowful  naked  trees,  the  plain  of  the  parade  ground, 
which  looked  a  mere  waste  of  mud  and  half -melted  ice;  the 
long  plain  line  of  the  Caserne  itself — a  cheering  prospect, 
truly! 

When  I  went  downstairs  I  found  Sir  Peter,  in  heavy 
traveling  overcoat,  standing  in  the  hall;  a  carriage  stood  at 
the  door;  his  servant  was  putting  in  his  master's  luggage  and 
rugs.  I  paused  in  astonishment.  Sir  Peter  looked  at  me 
and  smiled,  with  the  dubious  benevolence  which  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  extending  to  me. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  quit  your  charming 
society.  Miss  Wedderbum,  but  business  calls  me  imperatively 
to  England;  and,  at  least,  I  am  sure  that  my  wife  cannot  be 
unhappy  with  such  a  companion  as  her  sister." 

"  You  are  going  to  England?  " 

"I  am  going  to  England.  I  have  been  called  so  hastily 
that  I  can  make  no  arrangements  for  Adelaide  to  accompany 
me,  and,  indeed,  it  would  not  be  at  all  pleasant  for  her,  as 
I  am  only  going  on  business;  but  I  hope  to  return  for  her  and 
bring  her  home  in  a  few  weeks.  I  am  leaving  Arkwright 
with  you.     He  will  see  that  you  will  have  all  you  want." 

Sir  Peter  was  smihng,  ever  smiling,  with  the  smil*  trhich 
was  my  horror. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  243 

**  A  brilliant  ball  last  night,  was  it  not?  "  he  added,  extend- 
ing his  hand  to  me  in  farewell,  and  looking  at  me  intently 
with  eyes  that  fascinated  and  repelled  me  at  once. 

"  Very,  but — but — you  were  not  there  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not?  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  I  was.  Ask 
my  lady  if  she  thinks  I  was  there.  And  now  good-by,  and 
au  revoir! " 

He  loosened  my  hand,  descended  the  steps,  entered  the  car- 
riage, and  was  driven  away.  His  departure  ought  to  have 
raised  a  great  weight  from  my  mind,  but  it  did  not;  it  im- 
pressed me  with  a  sense  of  coming  disaster. 

Adelaide  breakfasted  in  her  room.  When  I  had  finished  I 
went  to  her.  Her  behavior  puzzled  me.  She  seemed  elated, 
excited,  at  the  absence  of  Sir  Peter,  and  yet,  suddenly  turn- 
ing to  me,  she  exclaimed  eagerly: 

"  Oh!  May,  I  wish  I  had  been  going  to  England,  too!  I 
wish  I  could  leave  this  place,  and  never  see  it  again." 

"  Was  Sir  Peter  at  the  ball,  Adelaide?  "  I  asked. 

She  turned  suddenly  pale;  her  lip  trembled;  her  eye 
wavered,  as  she  said  in  a  low,  uneasy  voice: 

"  I  believe  he  was — yes;  in  domino." 

"What  a  snealdng  thing  to  do!"  I  remarked  candidly. 
"  He  had  told  us  particularly  that  he  was  not  coming." 

"  That  very  statement  should  have  put  us  on  our  guard," 
she  remarked. 

"  On  our  guard?    Against  what?  "  I  asked  unsuspectingly. 

"  Oh,  nothing — nothing!  I  wonder  when  he  will  return! 
I  would  give  a  world  to  be  in  England! "  she  said  with  a 
heartsick  sigh;  and  I,  feeling  very  much  bewildered,  left  her. 

In  the  afternoon,  despite  wind  and  weather,  I  sallied  forth, 
and  took  my  way  to  my  old  lodgings  in  the  Wehrhahn. 
Crossing  a  square  leading  to  the  street  I  was  going  to,  I  met 
Anna  Sartorius.  She  bowed,  looking  at  me  mockingly.  I 
returned  her  salutation,  and  remembered  last  night  again 
with  painful  distinctness.  The  air  seemed  full  of  mysteries 
and  uncertainties;  they  clung  about  my  mind  like  cobwebs, 
and  I  could  not  get  rid  of  their  soft,  stifling  influence. 

Having  arrived  at  my  lodgings,  I  mounted  the  stairs. 
Frau  Lutzler  met  me. 

"iVa  na,  Fraulein!  You  do  not  patronize  me  much  now. 
My  rooms  are  becoming  too  small  for  you,  I  reckon." 

"  Indeed,  Frau  Lutzler,  I  wish  I  had  never  been  in  any 
larger  ones,"  I  answered  her  earnestly. 


S544  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  So!  Well,  'tis  true  you  look  thin  and  worn — not  as  well 
as  you  used  to.  And  were  you — but  I  heard  you  were,  so 
where's  the  use  of  telling  lies  about  it — at  the  Maskenball 
last  night?     And  how  did  you  like  it?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  very  new  to  me.  I  never  was  at  one 
before." 

"  Niclitf  Then  you  must  have  been  astonished.  They 
say  there  was  a  Mephisto  so  good  he  would  have  deceived  the 
devil  himself.  And  you,  Fraulein — I  heard  that  you  looked 
very  beautiful." 

"  So!     It  must  have  been  a  mistake." 

"Dock  nicht!  I  have  always  maintained  that  at  certain 
times  you  were  far  from  bad-looking,  and  dressed  and  got  up 
for  the  stage,  would  be  absolutely  handsome.  Nearly  anyone 
can  be  that — if  you  are  not  too  near  the  footlights,  that  is, 
and  don't  go  behind  the  scenes." 

With  which  neat  slaying  of  a  particular  compliment  by  a 
general  one,  she  released  me,  and  let  me  go  on  my  way 
upstairs. 

Here  I  had  some  books  and  some  music.  But  the  room 
was  cold;  the  books  failed  to  interest  me,  and  the  music  did 
not  go — the  piano  was  like  me — out  of  tune.  And  yet  I  felt 
the  need  of  some  musical  expression  of  the  mood  that  was 
upon  me.  I  bethought  myself  of  the  Tonhalle,  next  door, 
almost,  and  that  in  the  rittersaal  it  would  be  quiet  and  undis- 
turbed, as  the  ball  that  night  was  not  to  be  held  there,  but  in 
one  of  the  large  rooms  of  the  Caserne. 

Without  pausing  to  think  a  second  time  of  the  plan,  I  left 
the  house  and  went  to  the  Tonhalle,  only  a  few  steps  away. 
In  consequence  of  the  rain  and  bad  weather  almost  every 
trace  of  the  carnival  had  disappeared.  I  found  the  Tonhalle 
deserted  save  by  a  barmaid  at  the  restauration.  I  asked  her 
if  the  rittersaal  were  open,  and  she  said  yes.  I  passed  on. 
As  I  drew  near  the  door  I  heard  music;  the  piano  was  already 
being  played.  Could  it  be  Von  Francius  who  was  there?  I 
did  not  think  so.  The  touch  was  not  his — neither  so  prac- 
ticed, so  brilliant,  nor  so  sure. 

Satisfied,  after  listening  a  moment,  that  it  was  not  he,  I 
resolved  to  go  in  and  pass  through  the  room.  If  it  were  any- 
one whom  I  could  send  away  I  would  do  so,  if  not,  I  could  go 
away  again  myself. 

I  entered.  The  room  was  somewhat  dark,  but  I  went  in 
and  had  almost  come  to  the  piano  before  I  recognized  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  Z46 

player — Courvoisier.  Overcome  with  vexation  and  confu- 
sion at  the  contretemps,  I  paused  a  moment,  undecided 
whether  to  turn  back  and  go  out  again.  In  any  case  I  re- 
solved not  to  remain  in  the  room.  He  was  seated  with  his 
back  to  me,  and  still  continued  to  play.  Some  music  was  on 
the  desk  of  the  piano  before  him. 

I  might  turn  back  without  being  observed.  I  would  do  so. 
Hardly,  though — a  mirror  hung  directly  before  the  piano, 
and  I  now  saw  that  while  he  continued  to  play,  he  was  quietly 
looking  at  me,  and  that  his  keen  eyes — that  hawk's  glance 
which  I  knew  so  well — must  have  recognized  me.  That  de- 
cided me.  I  would  not  turn  back.  It  would  be  a  silly,  sense- 
less proceeding,  and  would  look  much  more  invidious  than 
my  remaining.  I  walked  up  to  the  piano,  and  he  turned, 
still  playing. 

"  Guten  Tag,  mein  Frdulein." 

I  merely  bowed,  and  began  to  search  through  a  pile  of 
songs  and  mvisic  upon  the  piano.  I  would  at  any  rate  take 
some  away  with  me  to  give  some  color  to  my  proceedings. 
Meanwliile  he  played  on. 

I  selected  a  song,  not  in  the  least  knowing  what  it  was,  and 
rolling  it  up,  was  turning  away. 

"  Are  you  busy.  Miss  Wedderburn?  '* 

"  N-no." 

"  Would  it  be  asking  too  much  of  you  to  play  the  piano- 
forte accompaniment?" 

"  I  will  tr}',''  said  I,  speaking  briefly,  and  slowly  drawing 
off  my  gloves. 

"  If  it  is  disagreeable  to  you,  don't  do  it,"  said  he,  pausing. 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  said  I,  avoiding  looking  at  him. 

He  opened  the  music.  It  was  one  of  Jensen's  "  Wander- 
bilder  "  for  piano  and  violin — the  "  Kreuz  am  Wege." 

"  I  have  only  tried  it  once  before,"  I  remarked,  ''  and  I  am 
a  dreadful  bungler." 

"  Bitte  sehr!  "  said  he,  smiling,  arranging  his  own  music  on 
one  of  the  stands  and  adding,  "  Now  I  am  ready." 

I  found  my  hands  trembling  so  much  that  I  could  scarcely 
follow  the  music.  Truly  this  man,  with  his  changes  from 
silence  to  talkativeness,  from  ironical  hardness  to  cordiality, 
was  a  puzzle  and  a  trial  to  me. 

"  Das  Kreuz  am  Wege  "  turned  out  rather  lame.  I  said  so 
when  it  was  over. 

"  Suppose  we  try  it  again/'  he  suggested,  and  we  did  so.    I 


246  TEE  FIRST  VlOZm. 

found  my  fingers  lingering  and  forgetting  their  part  as  I 
listened  to  the  piercing  beauty  of  his  notes. 

"  That  is  dismal,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  a  dismal  subject,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Suggestive,  at  least.  *  The  Cross  by  the  Wayside.' 
Well,  I  have  a  mind  for  something  more  cheerful.  Did  you 
leave  the  ball  early  last  night?" 

"  No;  not  very  early." 

"  Did  you  enjoy  it?  " 

"  It  was  all  new  to  me — ^very  interesting — ^but  I  don't  think 
I  quite  enjoyed  it." 

"  Ah,  you  should  see  the  balls  at  Florence,  or  Venice,  or 
Vienna! " 

He  smiled  as  he  leaned  back,  as  if  thinking  over  past 
scenes. 

"  Yes,"  said  I  dubiously;  "  I  don't  think  I  care  much  for 
such  things,  though  it  is  interesting  to  watch  the  little  drama 
going  on  around.** 

"  And  to  act  in  it,"  I  also  thought,  remembering  Anna  Sar- 
torius  and  her  whisper,  and  I  looked  at  him.  "  Not  honest, 
not  honorable.     Hiding  from  shame  and  disgrace." 

I  looked  at  him  and  did  not  believe  it.  For  the  moment 
the  torturing  idea  left  me.     I  was  free  from  it  and  at  peace. 

"  Were  you  going  to  practice?  "  he  asked.  "  I  fear  I  dis- 
turb you." 

"  Oh,  no!  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least.  I  shall  not 
practice  now." 

"  I  want  to  try  some  other  things,"  said  he,  "  and  Fried- 
helm's  and  my  piano  was  not  loud  enough  for  me,  nor  was 
there  sufficient  space  between  our  walls  for  the  sounds  of  a 
sjonphony.     Do  you  not  know  the  mood?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  to  ask  you  to  accompany  me." 

"Why?" 

"  You  seem  unwilling." 

"  I  am  not;  but  I  should  have  supposed  that  my  unwilling- 
ness— if  I  had  been  unwilling — would  have  been  an  induce- 
ment to  you  to  ask  me." 

"Eerrgott!    Why?" 

"  Since  you  took  a  vow  to  be  disagreeable  to  me,  and  to 
make  me  hate  you." 

A  slight  flush  passed  rapidly  over  his  face,  as  he  paused  for 
a  moment  and  bit  his  lips. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  247 

"Mein  Frdulein — that  night  I  was  in  bitterness  of  spirit 
—I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying " 

"  I  will  accompany  you,"  I  interrupted  him,  my  heart  beat- 
ing. "  Only  how  can  I  begin  unless  you  play,  or  tell  me  what 
you  want  to  play?" 

"  True,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  yet  ^jot  moving  from  his 
place  beside  the  piano,  upon  which  he  had  leaned  his  elbow, 
and  across  which  he  now  looked  at  me  with  the  selfsame 
kindly,  genial  glance  as  that  he  had  cast  upon  me  across  the 
little  table  at  the  Koln  restaurant.  And  yet  not  the  selfsame 
glance,  but  another,  which  I  would  not  have  exchanged  for 
that  first  one. 

If  he  would  but  begin  to  play  I  felt  that  I  should  not  mind 
so  much;  but  when  he  sat  there  and  looked  at  me  and  half 
smiled,  without  beginning  anytliing  practical,  I  felt  the  situa- 
tion at  least  trying. 

He  raised  his  eyes  as  the  door  opened  at  the  other  end  of 
the  saal. 

"Ah,  there  is  Friedhelm,"  said  he,  "now  he  will  take 
seconds." 

"  Then  I  will  not  disturb  you  any  longer." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  wrist. 
(My  dream  of  the  morning  flashed  into  my  mind.)  "  It 
would  be  better  if  you  remained,  then  we  could  have  a  trio. 
Friedel,  come  here!  You  are  just  in  time,  Fraulein  Wed- 
derbum  will  be  good  enough  to  accompany  us,  and  we  can 
try  the  Fourth  Symphony." 

"What  you  call  'Spring'?"  inquired  Helfen,  coming  up 
smilingly.     "  With   all   my   heart.     Where   is   the    score? " 

"  What  you  call  Spring?  "  Was  it  possible  that  in  winter — 
on  a  cold  and  unfriendly  day — we  were  going  to  have  spring, 
leafy  bloom,  the  desert  filled  with  leaping  springs,  and  blos- 
soming like  a  rose?  Full  of  wonder,  surprise,  and  a  certain 
excitement  at  the  idea,  I  sat  still  and  thought  of  my  dream, 
and  the  rain  beat  against  the  windows,  and  a  draughty  win3 
fluttered  the  tinselly  decorations  of  last  night.  The  floor 
was  strewed  with  fragments  of  garments  torn  in  the  crush — 
paper  and  silken  flowers,  here  a  rosette,  there  a  buckle,  a  satin 
bow,  a  tinsel  spangle.  Benches  and  tables  were  piled  about 
the  room,  which  was  half  dark;  only  to  westward,  through 
one  window,  was  visible  a  paler  gleam,  which  might  by  com- 
parison be  called  light. 

The  two  jf^ung  men  turned  over  the  music,  laughing  at 


248  THE  FIBST  VIOLm. 

something,  and  chaffing  each  other.  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
two  such  entire  friends  as  these;  they  seemed  to  harmonize 
most  perfectly  in  the  midst  of  their  unlikeness  to  each 
other.  ( 

"  Excuse  that  we  kept  you  waiting,  mein  Frdulein,"  said 
Courvoisier,  placing  some  music  before  me.  "  This  fellow  is 
so  slow,  and  will  put  everything  into  order  as  he  uses  it." 

"  Well  for  you  that  I  am,  mein  lieber,"  raid  Helfen  com- 
posedly. "  If  anyone  had  the  enterprise  to  offer  a  prize  to 
the  most  extravagant,  untidy  fellow  in  Europe,  the  palm 
would  be  yours — by  a  long  way,  too." 

"  Friedel  binds  his  music  and  numbers  it,"  observed  Cour- 
voisier. "  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting  of 
sights  to  behold  him  with  scissors,  paste-pot,  brush,  and  bind- 
ing. It  occurs  periodically  about  four  times  a  year,  I  think, 
and  moves  me  almost  to  tears  when  I  see  it." 

"  Der  edle  Bitter  leaves  his  music  unbound,  and  borrows 
mine  on  every  possible  occasion  when  his  own  property  is 
scattered  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven." 

" Aher!  aber!"  cried  Eugen.  "That  is  too  much!  I  call 
Frau  Schmidt  to  witness  that  all  my  music  is  put  in  one 
place." 

"  I  never  said  it  wasn't.  But  you  never  find  it  when  you 
want  it,  and  the  confusion  is  delightfully  increased  by  your 
constantly  rushing  off  to  buy  a  new  partitur  when  you  can't 
find  the  old  one;  so  you  have  three  or  four  of  each." 

"  This  is  all  to  show  off  what  he  considers  his  own  good 
qualities;  a  certain  slow,  methodical  plodding  and  a  good 
memory,  which  are  natural  gifts,  but  which  he  boasts  of  as  if 
they  were  acquired  virtues.  He  binds  his  music  because  he 
is  a  pedant  and  a  prig,  and  can't  help  it;  a  bad  fellow  to  get 
on  with.     Now,  mein  iester,  for  the  '  Friihling.'  " 

"  But  the  Fraulein  ought  to  have  it  explained,"  expostu- 
lated Helfen,  laughing.  "  Everyone  has  not  the  misfortune 
to  be  so  well  acquainted  with  you  as  I  am.  He  has  rather 
insane  fancies  sometimes,"  he  added,  turning  to  me,"  without 
rhyme  or  reason  that  I  am  aware,  and  he  chooses  to  assert 
that  Beethoven's  Fourth  Symphony,  or  the  chief  motive  of  it, 
occurred  to  him  on  a  spring  day,  when  the  master  was,  for  a 
time,  quite  charmed  from  his  bitter  humor,  and  had,  perhaps, 
someone  by  his  side  who  put  his  heart  in  tune  with  the  spring 
songs  of  the  birds,  the  green  of  the  grass,  the  scent  of  the 
flowers.    So  he  calls  it  the  *  Friihling  Symphonie/  and  will 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  249 

persist  in  playing  it  as  such.  I  call  the  idea  rather  far- 
letched,  but  then  that  is  nothing  unusual  with  him." 

"  Having  said  your  remarkably  stupid  say,  which  Miss 
Wedderbum  has  far  too  much  sense  to  heed  in  the  least,  sup- 
pose you  allow  us  to  begin,"  said  Courvoisier,  giving  the  other 
a  push  toward  his  violin. 

But  we  were  destined  to  have  yet  another  coadjutor  in  the 
shape  of  Karl  Linders,  wlio  at  that  moment  strolled  in,  and 
was  hailed  by  his  friends  with  jubilation. 

"Come  and  help!  Your  'cello  will  give  just  the  mellow- 
ness that  is  wanted,"  said  Eugen. 

"  I  must  go  and  get  it  then,  "  said  Karl,  looking  at  me. 

Eugen,  with  an  indescribable  expression  as  he  intercepted 
the  glance,  introduced  us  to  one  another.  Karl  and  Fried- 
helm  Helfen  went  off  to  another  part  of  the  Tonhalle  to  fetch 
Karl's  violoncello,  and  we  were  left  alone  again. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  introduced  him.  I  forgot 
•  Lohengrin,'  "  said  Eugen. 

"  You  know  that  you  did  not,"  said  I  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  almost  in  the  same  tone.  "  It  was 
thinking  of  that  which  led  me  to  introduce  poor  old  Karl  to 
you.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  you  would  accept  it  as  a 
sign — will  you  ?  " 

"A  sign  of  what?" 

"  That  I  feel  myself  to  have  been  in  the  wrong  through- 
out— and  forgive." 

As  I  sat,  amazed  and  a  little  awed  at  this  almost  literal  ful- 
fillment of  my  dream,  the  others  returned. 

Karl  contributed  the  tones  of  his  mellowest  of  instruments, 
which  he  played  with  a  certain  pleasant  breadth  and  bright- 
ness of  coloring,  and  my  dream  came  ever  truer  and  truer. 
The  symphony  was  as  springlike  as  possible.  We  tried  it 
nearly  all  through;  the  hymnlike  and  yet  fairylike  first  move- 
ment; the  second,  that  song  of  universal  love,  joy,  and 
thanksgiving,  with  Beethoven's  masculine  hand  evident 
throughout.  To  the  notes  there  seemed  to  fall  a  sunshine 
into  the  room,  and  we  could  see  the  fields  casting  their  cover- 
ing of  snow,  and  withered  trees  bursting  into  bloom;  brooks 
swollen  with  warm  rain,  birds  busy  at  nest-making;  clumps 
of  primroses  on  velvet  leaves,  and  the  subtle  scent  of  violets; 
youths  and  maidens  with  love  in  their  eyes;  and  even  a  hint 
of  later  warmth,  when  hedges  should  be  white  with  hawthorn, 
and  the  woodland  slopes  look,  with  their  sheets  of  hyacintlis, 


250  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

as  if  some  of  heaven's  blue  had  been  spilled  upon  earth's 
grass. 

As  the  last  strong,  melodious  modulations  ceased,  Courvoi-" 
sier  pointed  to  one  of  the  windows. 

"  Friedhelm,  you  wretched  unbeliever,  behold  the  refuta- 
tion of  your  theories!  The  symphony  has  brought  the  sun 
out." 

"  For  the  first  time,"  said  Friedhelm^,  as  he  turned  his  ear- 
nest young  face,  with  its  fringe  of  loose  brown  hair,  toward 
the  sneaking  sun-ray,  which  was  certainly  looking  shyly  in. 
"  As  a  rule  the  very  heavens  weep  at  the  performance.  Don't 
you  remember,  the  last  time  we  tried  it,  it  began  to  rain 
instantly?" 

"  ]\Iiss  Wedderburn's  co-operation  must  have  secured  its 
success  then  on  this  occasion,"  said  Eugen  gravely,  glancing 
at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  Hear!  hear!  "  murmured  Karl,  screwing  up  his  violon- 
cello and  smiling  furtively. 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  I  hindered  rather  than  helped,"  said  I, 
"  but  it  is  very  beautiful." 

"But  not  like  spring,  is  it?"  asked  Friedhelm. 

"  Well,  I  think  it  is." 

"  There!  I  knew  she  would  declare  for  me,"  said  Courvoi- 
sier  calmly,  at  which  Karl  Linders  looked  up  in  some 
astonishment. 

"  Shall  we  try  this  '  Traumerei,'  Miss  Wedderbum,  if  you 
are  not  too  tired?  " 

I  turned  willingly  to  the  piano,  and  we  played  Schumann's 
little  "  Dreams." 

"  Ah,"  said  Eugen  with  a  deep  sigh  (and  his  face  had 
grown  sad),  "  isn't  that  the  essence  of  sweetness  and  poetry? 
Sere's  another  which  is  lovely.  ^Noch  ein  Paar,'  niclit 
wahrf  " 

"  And  it  will  be  '  noch  ein  Paar '  until  our  fingers  drop  off," 
scolded  Friedhelm,  who  seemed,  however,  very  willing  to 
await  that  consummation.  We  went  through  many  of  the 
Kinderscenen  and  some  of  the  Kreissleriana,  and  just  as  we 
finished  a  sweet  little  "Bittendes  Kind,"  the  twilight  grew 
almost  into  darkness,  and  Courvoisier  laid  his  violin  down. 

"  Miss  Wedderbum,  thank  you  a  thousand  times!  " 

"  Oh,  hitte  sehr! "  was  all  I  could  say.  I  wanted  to  say  so 
much  more;  to  say  that  I  had  been  made  happy,  my  sadness 
dispelled,  a  dream  half  fulfilled,  but  the  words  stuck,  and  had 


THE  FIBST  VIOLIN.  251 

they  come  ever  so  flowingly  I  could  not  have  uttered  them 
with  Friedhelm  Helfen,  who  knew  so  much,  looking  at  us, 
and  Karl  Linders  on  his  best  behavior  in  what  he  considered 
superior  company. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  was  that  Karl  and  Friedhelm,  as  we 
all  came  from  the  Tonhalle,  walked  off  to  the  house,  and 
Eugen  and  I  were  left  to  walk  alone  through  the  soaking 
streets,  emptied  of  all  their  revelers,  and  along  the  dripping 
Konigsallee,  with  its  leafless  chestnuts,  to  Sir  Peter's  house. 
It  was  cold,  it  was  wet — cheerless,  dark,  and  dismal,  and  I 
was  very  happy — veiy  insanely  so.  I  gave  a  glance  once  or 
twice  at  my  companion.  The  brightness  had  left  his  face;  it 
was  stern  and  worn  again,  and  his  lips  set  as  if  with  the 
repression  of  some  pain. 

"  Herr  Courvoisier,  have  you  heard  from  your  little  boy?  " 

"  No." 

"No?" 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  hear  from  him,  mcin  Frav.'^ain.  When 
he  left  me  we  parted  altogether." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!" 

No  answer.  And  we  spoke  no  more  until  he  said  "  Good- 
evening  "  to  me  at  the  door  of  No.  3.  As  I  went  in  I  re- 
flected that  I  might  never  meet  him  thus  face  to  face  again. 
Was  it  an  opportunity  missed,  or  was  it  a  brief  glimpse  of 
unexpected  joy? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    TEUTH. 

As  days  went  on  and  grew  into  weeks,  and  weeks  paired  off 
until  a  month  passed,  and  I  still  saw  the  same  stricken  look 
upon  my  sister's  face,  my  heart  grew  full  of  foreboding. 

One  morning  the  astonishing  news  came  that  Sir  Peter  had 
gone  to  America. 

"  America! "  I  ejaculated  (it  was  always  I  who  acted  the 
part  of  chorus  and  did  the  exclamations  and  questioning), 
and  I  looked  at  Harry  Arkwright,  who  had  communicated  the 
news,  and  who  held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  to  America,  to  see  about  a  railway  which  looks  very 
bad.  lie  has  no  end  of  their  bonds,"  said  Harry,  folding  up 
the  letter. 


252  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  When  will  he  return?  " 

"  He  doesn't  know.  Meanwhile  we  are  to  stay  where  we 
are." 

Adelaide,  when  we  spoke  of  this  circumstance,  said  bitterly: 

"  Everything  is  against  me!  " 

"Against  you,  Adelaide?"  said  I,  looking  apprehensively 
at  her. 

"  Yes,  everything!  "  she  repeated. 

She  had  never  been  effusive  in  her  behavior  to  others;  she 
was  now,  if  possible,  still  less  so,  but  the  uniform  quietness 
and  gentleness  with  which  she  now  treated  all  who  came  in 
contact  with  her,  puzzled  and  troubled  me.  What  was  it  that 
preyed  upon  her  mind?  In  looking  round  for  a  cause  my 
thoughts  lighted  first  on  one  person,  then  on  another;  I  dis- 
missed the  idea  of  all,  except  Von  Francius,  witn  a  smile. 
Shortly  I  abandoned  that  idea  too.  True,  he  was  a  man  of 
very  different  caliber  from  the  others;  a  man,  too,  for  whom 
Adelaide  had  conceived  a  decided  friendship,  though  in  these 
latter  days  even  that  seemed  to  be  dying  out.  He  did  not 
come  so  often;  when  he  did  come  they  had  little  to  say  to 
each  other.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  cause  of  her  sadness  lay 
no  deeper  than  her  everyday  life,  which  must  necessarily 
grow  more  mournful  day  by  day.  She  could  feel  intensely, 
as  I  had  lately  become  aware,  and  had,  too,  a  warm,  quick 
imagination.  It  might  be  that  a  simple  weariness  of  life  and 
the  anticipation  of  long  years  to  come  of  such  a  life  lay  so 
heavily  upon  her  soul  as  to  have  wrought  that  gradual 
change. 

Sometimes  I  was  satisfied  with  this  theory;  at  others  it 
dwindled  into  a  miserably  inadequate  measure.  When  Ade- 
laide once  or  twice  kissed  me,  smiled  at  me,  and  called  me 
"  dear,"  it  was  on  my  lips  to  ask  the  meaning  of  the  whole 
thing,  but  it  never  passed  them.  I  dared  not  speak  when  it 
came  to  the  point. 

One  day,  about  this  time,  I  met  Anna  Sartorius  in  one  of 
the  picture  exhibitions.  I  would  have  bowed  and  passed  her, 
but  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  me. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  often  lately,"  said  she;  "  but  I  assure 
you,  you  will  hear  more  of  me  some  time — and  before  long." 

Without  replying,  I  passed  on.  Anna  had  ceased  even  to 
pretend  to  look  friendly  upon  me,  and  I  did  not  feel  much 
alarm  as  to  her  power  for  or  against  my  happiness  or  peace  of 
mind. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  253 

Eegularly,  once  a  month,  I  wrote  to  Miss  Hallam  and  occa- 
sionally had  a  few  lines  from  Stella,  who  had  become  a  pro- 
tegee of  Miss  Hallam's,  too.  They  appeared  to  get  on  very 
well  together,  at  which  I  did  not  wonder;  for  Stella,  with  all 
her  youthfulness,  was  of  a  cynical  turn  of  mind  which  must 
suit  Miss  Hallam  well. 

My  greatest  friend  in  Elberthal  was  good  little  Dr.  Mitten- 
dorf,  who  had  brought  his  wife  to  call  upon  me,  and  to  whose 
house  I  had  been  invited  several  times  since  Miss  Hallam's 
departure. 

During  this  time  I  worked  more  steadily  than  ever,  and 
with  a  deeper  love  of  my  art  for  itself.  Von  Francius  was 
still  my  master  and  my  friend.  I  used  to  look  back  upon  the 
days,  now  nearly  a  year  ago,  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  seeing 
Jhim,  distrusted  and  only  half  liked  him,  and  wondered  at 
myself;  for  I  had  now  as  entire  a  confidence  in  him  as  can  by 
any  means  be  placed  in  a  man.  He  had  thoroughly  won  my 
esteem,  respect,  admiration — in  a  measure,  too,  my  affection. 
I  liked  the  power  of  him;  the  strong  hand  with  which  he 
carried  things  in  his  own  way;  the  idiomatic  language,  and 
quick,  curt  sentences  in  which  he  enunciated  his  opinions.  I 
felt  him  like  a  strong,  kind,  and  thoughtful  elder  brother, 
and  have  had  abundant  evidence  in  his  deeds  and  in  some 
brief,  unemotional  words  of  his  that  he  felt  a  great  regard  of 
the  fraternal  kind  for  me.  It  has  often  comforted  me,  that 
friendship — pure,  disinterested,  and  manly  on  his  side,  grate- 
ful and  unwavering  on  mine. 

I  still  retained  m^y  old  lodgings  in  the  Wehrhahn,  and  was 
determined  to  do  so.  I  would  not  be  tied  to  remain  in  Sir 
Peter  Le  March  ant's  house  unless  I  chose.  Adelaide  wished 
me  to  come  and  remain  with  her  altogether.  She  said  Sir 
Peter  wished  it  too;  he  had  written  and  said  she  might  ask 
me.  I  asked  what  was  Sir  Peter's  motive  in  wishing  it? 
Was  it  not  a  desire  to  humiliate  both  of  us,  and  to  show  us 
that  we — the  girl  who  had  scorned  him,  and  the  woman 
who  had  sold  herself  to  him — were  in  the  end  depend- 
ent upon  him,  and  must  follow  his  will  and  submit  to  his 
pleasure? 

She  reddened,  sighed,  and  owned  that  it  was  true;  nor  did 
she  press  me  any  further. 

A  month,  then,  elapsed  between  the  carnival  in  February 
and  the  next  great  concert  in  the  latter  end  of  March.  It 
was  rather  a  special  concert,  for  Von  Francius  had  succeeded. 


254  THE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

in  spite  of  many  o'bstacles,  in  bringing  out  the  Choral 
Symphony. 

He  conducted  well  that  night;  and  he,  Courvoisier,  Fried- 
helm,  Helfen,  Karl  Linders,  and  one  or  two  others,  formed 
in  their  white  heat  of  enthusiasm  a  leaven  which  leavened  the 
whole  lump.  Orchestra  and  chorus  alike  did  a  little  more 
than  their  possible,  without  which  no  great  enthusiasm  can 
be  carried  out.  As  I  watched  Von  Francius,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  a  new  soul  had  entered  into  the  man.  I  did  not  believe 
that  a  year  ago  he  could  have  conducted  the  Choral  Sym- 
phony as  he  did  that  night.  Can  anyone  enter  into  the 
broad,  eternal  clang  of  the  great  "  world-story "  unless  he 
has  a  private  story  of  his  own  which  may  serve  him  in  some 
measure  as  a  key  to  its  mystery?  I  think  not.  It  was  a 
night  of  triumph  for  Max  von  Francius.  Not  only  was  the 
glorious  music  cheered  and  applauded,  he  was  called  to  re- 
ceive a  meed  of  thanks  for  having  once  more  given  to  the 
world  a  never-dying  Joy  and  beauty. 

I  was  in  the  chorus.  Down  below  I  saw  Adelaide  and  her 
devoted  attendant,  Harry  Arkwright.  She  looked  whiter  and 
more  subdued  than  ever.  All  the  splendor  of  the  praise  of 
"  joy  "  could  not  bring  joy  to  her  heart — 

"  Diesen  Kuss  der  ganzen  Welt" 

bronght  no  warmth  to  her  cheek,  nor  lessened  the  load  on  her 
breast. 

The  concert  over,  we  returned  home.  Adelaide  and  I  re- 
tired to  her  dressing  room,  and  her  maid  brought  us  tea» 
She  seated  herself  in  silence.  For  my  part,  I  was  excited  and 
hot,  and  felt  my  cheeks  glowing.  I  was  so  stirred  that  I 
could  not  sit  still,  but  moved  to  and  fro,  wishing  that  all  the 
world  could  hear  that  music,  and  repeating  lines  from  the 
"  Ode  to  Joy,"  the  grand  marchlike  measure,  feeling  my 
heart  uplifted  with  the  exaltation  of  its  opening  strain: 

"  Freude,  schOner  G5tterfunken  1 
Tochter  aus  Elysium  I " 

As  I  paced  about  thus  excitedly,  Adelaide's  maid  came  in 
with  a  note.  Mr.  Arkwright  had  received  it  from  Herr  von 
Francius,  who  had  desired  him  to  give  it  to  Lady  Le  Mar- 


THE  FIRST  TIOLIN.  255 

!A.delaide  opened  it  and  I  went  on  with  my  chant.  I  know 
HOW  how  dreadful  it  must  have  sounded  to  her. 

**  Freude  trinken  alle  Wesen 
An  den  Briisten  der  Natur— -" 

"  May!  "  said  Adelaide  faintly. 

I  turned  in  my  walk  and  looked  at  her.  "White  as  death, 
she  held  the  paper  toward  me  with  a  steady  hand,  and  I,  the 
song  of  joy  slain  upon  my  lips,  took  it.  It  was  a  brief  note 
from  Von  Francius. 

"  I  let  you  know,  my  lady,  first  of  all  that  I  have  accepted 

the  post  of  Musik-direktor  in .  It  will  be  made  known 

to-morrow." 

I  held  the  paper  and  looked  at  her.  Now  I  knew  the  rea- 
son of  her  pallid  looks.  I  had  indeed  been  blind.  I  might 
have  guessed  better. 

"  Have  you  read  it?  *'  she  asked,  and  she  stretched  her 
arms  above  her  head,  as  if  panting  for  breath. 

"Adelaide!"  I  whispered,  going  up  to  her;  "Adelaide 
—oh! " 

She  fell  upon  my  neck.  She  did  not  speak,  and  I,  speech- 
less, held  her  to  my  breast. 

"  You  love  liim,  Adelaide?  "  I  said,  at  last. 

"  With  my  whole  soul! "  she  answered  in  a  low,  very  low, 
but  vehement  voice.     "  With  my  whole  soul!  " 

"  And  you  have  owned  it  to  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  I,  "  how  it  was." 

"  I  think  I  have  loved  him  since  almost  the  first  time  I  saw 
him — he  made  quite  a  different  impression  upon  me  than 
other  men  do — quite.  I  hardly  knew  myself.  He  mas- 
tered me.  No  other  man  ever  did — except "  she  shud- 
dered a  little,  "  and  that  only  because  I  tied  myself  hand  and 
foot.  But  I  liked  the  mastery.  It  was  delicious;  it  was  rest 
and  peace.  It  went  on  for  long.  We  knew — each  knew 
quite  well  that  we  loved,  but  he  never  spoke  of  it.  He  saw 
how  it  was  with  me  and  he  helped  me — oh,  why  is  he  so  good? 
He  never  tried  to  trap  me  into  any  acknowledgment.  He 
never  made  any  use  of  the  power  he  knew  he  had  except  to 
keep  me  right.    But  at  the  Maskenball — I  do  not  know  how 


256  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

it  was — we  were  alone  in  all  the  crowd — there  was  something 
said — a  look.  It  was  all  over.  But  he  was  true  to  the  last. 
He  did  not  say,  *  Throw  everything  up  and  come  to  me.'  He 
said,  '  Give  me  the  only  joy  that  we  may  have.  Tell  me  you 
love  me.'  And  I  told  him.  I  said,  '  I  love  you  with  my  life 
and  my  soul,  and  everything  I  have,  forever  and  ever/  And 
that  is  true.  He  said,  '  Thank  you,  milady.  I  accept  the 
condition  of  my  knighthood,'  and  kissed  my  hand.  There 
was  someone  following  us.  It  was  Sir  Peter.  He  heard  all, 
and  he  has  punished  me  for  it  since.  He  will  punish  me 
again." 

A  pause. 

"  That  is  all  that  has  been  said.  He  does  not  know  that 
Sir  Peter  knows,  for  he  has  never  alluded  to  it  since.  He  has 
spared  me.     I  say  he  is  a  noble  man." 

She  raised  herself,  and  looked  at  me. 

Dear  sister!  With  your  love  and  your  pride,  your  sins  and 
your  folly,  inexpressibly  dear  to  me!  I  pressed  a  kiss  upon 
her  lips. 

"  Von  Francius  is  good,  Adelaide;  he  is  good." 

"Von  Francius  would  have  told  me  this  himself,  but  he 
has  been  afraid  for  me;  some  time  ago  he  said  to  me  that  he 
had  the  offer  of  a  post  at  a  distance.  That  was  asking  my 
advice.  I  found  out  what  it  was,  and  said,  *  Take  it.'  He 
has  done  so." 

"  Then  you  have  decided?  "  I  stammered. 

"  To  part.  He  has  strength.  So  have  I.  It  was  my  own 
fault.  May — I  could  bear  it  if  it  were  for  myself  alone.  I 
have  had  my  eyes  opened  now.  I  see  that  when  people  do 
wrong  they  drag  others  into  it — they  punish  those  they  love 
—it  is  part  of  their  own  punishment." 

A  pause.  Facts,  I  felt,  were  pitiless;  but  the  glow  of 
friendship  for  Von  Francius  was  like  a  strong  fire.  In  the 
midst  of  the  keenest  pain  one  finds  a  true  man,  and  the  dis- 
covery is  like  a  sudden  soothing  of  sharp  anguish,  or  like 
the  finding  a  strong  comrade  in  a  battle. 

Adelaide  had  been  very  self-restrained  and  quiet  all  this 
time,  but  now  suddenly  broke  out  into  low,  quick,  half 
sobbed-out  words: 

"  Oh,  I  love  him,  I  love  him!  It  is  dreadful!  How  shall 
I  go  through  with  it?  " 

Ay,  there  was  the  rub!  Not  one  short,  sharp  pang,  and 
over — all  fire  quenched  in  cool  mists  of  death  and  uncon- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLim  987 

sciousness,  but  long  years  to  come  of  daily,  hourly,  paying  the 
price;  incessant  compunction,  active  punishment.  A  pros- 
pect for  a  martyr  to  shirk  from,  and  for  a  woman  who  has 
made  a  mistake  to — live  through. 

We  needed  no  further  words.  The  secret  was  told,  and 
the  worst  known.  We  parted.  Von  Francius  was  from  this 
moment  a  sacred  being  to  me. 

But  from  this  time  he  scarcely  came  near  the  house — not 
even  to  give  me  my  lessons.  I  went  to  my  lodging  and  had 
them  there.  Adelaide  said  nothing,  asked  not  a  question  con- 
cerning him,  nor  mentioned  his  name,  and  the  silence  on  his 
side  was  almost  as  profound  as  that  on  hers.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  feared  that  should  they  meet,  speak,  look  each  other  in 
the  eyes,  all  resolution  would  be  swept  away,  and  the  end 
hurry  resistless  on. 


CHAPTEK  V. 

"  And  behold,  though  the  way  was  liglit  and  the  sun  did  shine,  yet 
my  heart  was  ill  at  ease,  for  a  sinister  blot  did  now  and  again  tieck  the 
sun,  and  a  muttered  sound  perturbed  the  air.  And  he  repeated  oft, 
*  One  hath  told  me— thus— or  thus.' " 

Kakl  Lindees,  our  old  acquaintance,  was  now  our  fast 
friend.  Many  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  personnel  of 
our  fellow- workmen  in  the  kapelle,  but  Eugen,  Karl,  and  I 
remained  stationary  in  the  same  places  and  holding  the  same 
rank  as  on  the  day  we  had  first  met.  He,  Karl,  had  been 
from  the  first  more  congenial  to  me  than  any  other  of  my 
fellows  (Eugen  excepted,  of  course).  Why,  I  could  never 
exactly  tell.  There  was  about  him  a  contagious  cheerfulness, 
good-humor,  and  honesty.  He  was  a  sinner,  but  no  rascal; 
a  wild  fellow — Taugenichts — wilder  Gesell,  as  our  phraseology 
had  it,  but  the  furthest  thing  possible  from  a  knave. 

Since  his  visits  to  us  and  his  earnest  efforts  to  curry  favor 
with  Sigmund  by  means  of  nondescript  wool  beasts,  domestic 
or  of  prey,  he  had  grown  much  njearer  to  us.  He  was  the 
only  intimate  we  had — the  only  person  who  came  in  and  out 
of  our  quarters  at  any  time;  the  only  man  who  sat  and 
smoked  with  us  in  an  evening.  At  the  time  when  Karl  put 
in  his  first  appearance  in  these  pages  he  was  a  young  man  not 
only  not  particular,  but  utterly  reckless  as  to  the  society  he 
frequented.     Anyone,  he  was  wont  to  say,  was  good  enough 


a»8  THE  FIRST  VlOim. 

to  talk  with,  or  to  listen  while  talked  to.  Karl's  conversation 
could  not  be  called  either  affected  or  pedantic;  his  taste  was 
catholic,  and  comprised  within  wide  bounds;  he  considered 
all  subjects  that  were  amusing  appropriate  matter  of  discus- 
sion, and  to  him  most  subjects  were — or  were  susceptible  of 
being  made — amusing. 

Latterly,  however,  it  would  seem  that  a  process  of  growth 
had  been  going  on  in  him.  Three  years  had  worked  a  differ- 
ence. In  some  respects  he  was,  thank  Heaven!  still  the  old 
Karl — ^the  old  careless,  reckless,  aimless  fellow;  but  in  others 
he  was  metamorphosed. 

Karl  Linders,  a  handsome  fellow  himself  and  a  slave  to 
beauty,  as  he  was  careful  to  inform  us — susceptible  in  the 
highest  degree  to  real  loveliness — so  he  often  told  us — and 
i"  love  on  an  average,  desperately  and  forever,  once  a  week, 
had  at  last  fallen  really  and  actually  in  love. 

For  a  long  time  we  did  not  guess  it — or  rather,  accepting 
his  being  in  love  as  a  chronic  state  of  his  being — one  of  the 
"  inseparable  accidents,"  which  may  almost  be  called  quali- 
ties, we  wondered  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  sudden  in- 
tense sobriety  of  demeanor  and  propriety  of  conduct,  and 
looked  for  some  cause  deeper  than  love,  which  did  not  usually 
have  that  effect  upon  him;  Ave  thought  it  might  be  debt. 
We  studied  the  behavior  itself;  we  remarked  that  for  upward 
of  ten  days  he  had  never  lauded  the  charms  of  any  young 
woman  connected  with  the  choral  or  terpsichorean  staif  of  the 
opera,  and  wondered. 

We  saw  that  he  had  had  his  hair  very  much  cut,  and  we 
told  him  frankly  that  we  did  not  think  it  improved  him- 
To  our  great  surprise  he  told  us  that  we  knew  nothing  about 
it,  and  requested  us  to  mind  our  own  business,  adding  testily, 
after  a  pause,  that  he  did  not  see  why  on  earth  a  set  of  men 
like  us  should  make  ourselves  conspicuous  by  the  fashion  of 
our  hair,  as  if  we  were  Absaloms  or  Samsons. 

"  Samson  had  a  Delilah,  mein  lieber"  said  I,  eying  him. 
"  She  shore  his  locks  for  him.  Tell  us  frankly  who  has  acted 
the  part  by  you." 

"Bah!  Can  a  fellow  have  no  sense  in  his  own  head  to 
find  such  things  out?  Go  and  do  likewise,  and  I  can  tell  you 
you'll  be  improved." 

But  we  agreed  when  he  was  gone  that  the  loose  teckp, 
drooping  over  the  laughing  glance,  suited  him  better  than 
that  neatly  cropped  propriety. 


TEE  FIRST  VlOim.  259 

Days  passed,  and  Karl  was  still  not  his  old  self.  It  became 
matter  of  public  remark  that  his  easy,  short  jacket,  a  mon- 
grel kind  of  garment  to  which  he  was  deeply  attached,  was 
discarded,  not  merely  for  grand  occasions,  but  even  upon  the 
ordinary  Saturday  night  concert,  yea,  even  for  walking  out 
at  midday,  and  a  superior  frock-coat  substituted  for  it — a 
frock-coat  in  which,  we  told  him,  he  looked  quite  edel.  At 
which  he  pished  and  pshawed,  but  surreptitiously  adjusted 
his  collar  before  the  looking-glass  which  the  propriety  and 
satisfactoriness  of  our  behavior  had  induced  Frau  Schmidt 
to  add  to  our  responsibilities,  pulled  his  cuffs  down,  and 
remarked  en  passant  that  "  the  'cello  was  a  horribly  ungrace- 
ful instrument." 

"  Not  as  you  use  it,"  said  we  both  politely,  and  allowed 
him  to  lead  the  way  to  the  concert-room. 

A  few  evenings  later  he  strolled  into  our  room,  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  sighed  deeply. 

"  What  ails  thee,  then,  Karl?  "  I  asked. 

"  I've  something  on  my  mind,"  he  replied  uneasily. 

"  That  we  know,"  put  in  Eugen;  "  and  a  pretty  big  lump 
it  must  be,  too.  Out  with  it,  man!  Has  she  accepted  the 
bottle-nosed  oboist  after  all?  " 

"  No." 

"Have  you  got  info  debt?  How  much?  I  dare  say  we 
can  manage  it  between  us." 

"  No — oh,  no!     I  am  five  thalers  to  the  good." 

Our  countenances  grew  more  serious.  Not  debt?  Then 
what  was  it,  what  could  it  be? 

"  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  Gretchen,"  suggested 
Eugen,  for  Gretchen,  his  sister,  was  the  one  permanently 
strong  love  of  Karl's  heart. 

"  Oh,  no!  Das  Mddel  is  very  well,  and  getting  on  in  her 
classes." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  I'm — engaged — to  be  married." 

I  grieve  to  say  that  Eugen  and  I,  after  staring  at  him  for 
some  few  minutes,  until  we  had  taken  in  the  announcement, 
both  burst  into  the  most  immoderate  laughter — till  the  tears 
ran  down  our  cheeks  and  our  sides  ached. 

Karl  sat  quite  still,  unresponsive,  puffing  away  at  his  cigar; 
and  when  we  had  finished,  or  rather  were  becoming  a  little 
more  moderate  in  the  expression  of  our  amusement,  he 
Irjiocked  the  ash  away  from  his  weed,  and  remarked: 


260  TEE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

"  That's  blind  jealousy.  You  both  know  that  there  isn't 
a  Mddchen  in  the  place  who  would  look  at  you,  so  you  try 
to  laugh  at  people  who  are  better  off  than  yourselves." 

This  was  so  stinging  (from  the  tone  more  than  the  words) 
as  coming  from  the  most  sweet-tempered  fellow  I  ever  knew, 
that  we  stopped.  Eugen  apologized,  and  we  asked  who  the 
lady  was. 

"I  shouldn't  suppose  you  cared  to  know,"  said  he  rather 
sulkily.  "  And  it's  all  very  fine  to  laugh,  but  let  me  see  the 
man  who  even  smiles  at  her — he  shall  learn  who  I  am." 

We  assured  him,  with  the  strongest  expressions  that  we 
could  call  to  our  aid,  that  it  was  the  very  idea  of  his  being 
engaged  that  made  us  laugh — not  any  disrespect,  and  begged 
Ms  pardon  again.  By  degrees  he  relented.  We  still  urgently 
demanded  the  name  of  the  lady. 

"  Als  verlobte  empfehlen  sich  Karl  Linders  and — who  else?  " 
asked  Eugen. 

"  Als  verlohte  empfehlen  sich  *  Karl  Linders  and  Clara  Stein- 
mann,"  said  Karl  Avith  much  dignity. 

"  Clara  Steinmann,"  we  repeated,  in  tones  of  respectful 
gravity,  "  I  never  heard  of  her." 

"  No,  she  keeps  herself  rather  reserved  and  select,"  said 
Karl  impressively.  "  She  lives  with  her  aunt  in  the  Allee- 
strasse,  at  number  39." 

"  Number  39!  "  we  both  ejaculated. 

"Exactly  so!  What  have  you  to  say  against  it?"  demanded 
Herr  Linders,  glaring  around  upon  us  with  an  awful  majesty. 

"  Nothing — oh,  less  than  nothing.  But  I  know  now  where 
^ou  mean.     It  is  a  boarding-house,  nicM  wahrf  " 

He  nodded  sedately. 

"  I  have  seen  the  young  lady,"  said  I,  carefully  observing 
all  due  respect.  "  Eugen,  you  must  have  seen  her  too.  Miss 
Wedderbum  used  to  come  with  her  to  the  Instrumental  Con- 
certs before  she  began  to  sing." 

"  Eight!  "  said  Karl  graciously.  "  She  did.  Clara  liked 
Miss  Wedderbum  very  much." 

"  Indeed!  "  said  we  respectfully,  and  fully  recognizing  that 
this  was  quite  a  different  affair  from  any  of  the  previous 

*  The  German  custom  on  an  engagement  taking  place  is  to  announce 
it  with  the  above  words,  signifying  "  M.  and  N.  announce  (recommend) 
themselves  as  betrothed."  This  appears  in  the  newspaper— as  a  mar 
riage  with  us. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  261 

flirtations  with  chonis-singers  and  ballet-girls  whicli  had 
taken  up  so  much  of  his  attention. 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  said  I.  "  I  have  not  that  pleasure,  but 
I  am  sure  you  are  to  be  congratulated,  old  fellow — so  I  do 
congratulate  you  very  heartily." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he. 

"  I  can't  congratulate  you,  Karl,  as  I  don't  know  the  lady," 
said  Eugen,  "  but  I  do  congratulate  her,"  laying  his  hand 
upon  Karl's  shoulder;  "  I  hope  she  knows  the  kind  of  man 
she  has  won,  and  is  worthy  of  him." 

A  smile  of  the  Miss  Squeers  description — "  Tilda,  I  pities 
your  ignorance  and  despises  you  " — crossed  Karl's  hps  as  he 
said: 

"  Thank  you.  No  one  else  knows.  It  only  took  place — 
decidedly,  you  know — to-night.  I  said  I  should  tell  two 
friends  of  mine;  she  said  she  had  no  objection.  I  should 
not  have  liked  to  keep  it  from  you  two.  I  wish,"  said  Karl, 
whose  eyes  had  been  roving  in  a  seeking  manner  around  the 
room,  and  who  now  brought  his  words  out  with  a  run;  *'  I 
wish  Sigmund  had  been  here,  too.  I  wish  she  could  have 
seen  him.  She  loves  children;  she  has  been  very  good  to 
Gretchen." 

Eugen's  hand  dropped  from  our  friend's  shoulder.  He 
walked  to  the  window  without  speaking,  and  looked  out  into 
the  darkness — as  he  was  then  in  more  senses  than  one  often 
wont  to  do — nor  did  he  break  the  silence  nor  look  at  us 
again  until  some  time  after  Karl  and  I  had  resumed  the 
conversation. 

So  did  the  quaint  fellow  announce  his  engagement  to  us. 
It  was  quite  a  romantic  little  history,  for  it  turned  out  that 
he  had  loved  the  girl  for  full  two  years,  but  for  a  long  time 
had  not  been  able  even  to  make  her  acquaintance,  and  when 
that  was  accomplished,  had  hardly  dared  to  speak  of  his  love 
for  her;  for  though  she  was  sprung  from  much  the  same  class 
as  himself,  she  was  in  much  better  circumstances,  and  accus- 
tomed to  a  life  of  ease  and  plenty,  even  if  she  were  little  better 
in  reality  than  a  kind  of  working  housekeeper.  A  second 
suitor  for  her  hand  had,  however,  roused  Karl  into  boldness 
and  activity;  he  declared  himself  and  was  accepted.  Despite 
the  opposition  of  Frau  Steinmann,  who  thought  the  match 
in  every  way  beneath  her  niece  (why,  I  never  could  tell),  the 
lovers  managed  to  carry  their  purpose  so  far  as  the  betrothal 
or  verloiung  went;  marriage  was  a  question  strictly  of  the 


262  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

future.  It  was  during  the  last  weeks  of  suspense  and  uncer- 
tainty that  Karl  had  been  unable  to  carry  things  off  in  quite 
his  usual  light-hearted  manner;  it  was  after  finally  conquer- 
ing that  he  came  to  make  us  partners  in  his  satisfaction. 

In  time  we  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  Fraulein 
Steinmann,  and  our  amazement  and  amusement  were  equally 
great.  Karl  was  a  tall,  handsome,  well-knit  fellow,  with  an 
exceptionally  graceful  figure  and  what  I  call  a  typical  German 
face  (typical,  I  mean,  in  one  line  of  development) — open, 
frank,  handsome,  with  the  broad  traits,  smiling  lips,  clear 
and  direct  guileless  eyes,  waving  hair  and  aptitude  for 
geniality  which  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  that  type — not 
the  highest,  perhaps,  but  a  good  one,  nevertheless — honest, 
loyal,  brave — a  kind  which  makes  good  fathers  and  good 
soldiers — how  many  a  hundred  are  mourned  since  1870—71! 

He  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  little  stout  dumpy  Mddchen, 
honest  and  open  as  himself,  but  stupid  in  all  outside  domestic 
matters.  She  was  evidently  desperately  in  love  with  him, 
and  could  understand  a  good  waltz  or  a  sentimental  song,  so 
that  his  musical  talents  were  not  altogether  thrown  away.  I 
liked  her  better  after  a  time.  There  was  something  touching 
in  the  way  in  which  she  said  to  me  once: 

"  He  might  have  done  so  much  better.  I  am  such  an  ngly, 
stupid  thing,  but  when  he  said  did  I  love  him  or  could  I  love 
him,  or  something  like  that,  um  Gotteswillen,  Herr  Helfen, 
what  could  I  say?  " 

"I  am  sure  you  did  the  best  possible  thing  both  for 
him  and  for  you,"  I  was  able  to  say,  with  emphasis  and 
conviction. 

Karl  had  now  become  a  completely  reformed  and  domes- 
ticated member  of  society;  now  he  wore  the  frock-coat  several 
times  a  week,  and  confided  to  me  that  he  thought  he  must 
have  a  new  one  soon.  Now,  too,  did  other  strange  results  ap- 
pear of  his  encijagement  to  Fraulein  Clara*  (he  got  sentimental 
and  called  her  Clarchen  sometimes).  He  had  now  the  entree 
of  Frau  Steinmann's  house  and  there  met  feminine  society 
several  degrees  above  that  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed. 
He  was  obliged  to  wear  a  permanently  polite  and  polished 
manner  (which,  let  me  hasten  to  say,  was  not  the  least  trouble 
to  him).  No  chaffing  of  these  young  ladies — no  offering  to 
take  them  to  places  of  amusement  of  any  but  the  very  sternest 
and  severest  respectability. 

He  took  Fraulein  Clara  out  for  walks.     They  jogged  along 


TEE  FIRST  VlOim.  263 

arm  in  arm,  Karl  radiant,  Clara  no  less  so,  and  sometimes 
they  were  accompanied  by  another  inmate  of  Frau  Stein- 
mann's  house — a  contrast  to  them  both.  She  lived  en  famille 
with  her  hostess,  not  having  an  income  large  enough  to  admit 
of  indulging  in  quite  separate  quarters,  and  her  name  was 
Anna  Sartorius. 

It  was  very  shortly  after  his  engagement  that  Karl  began 
to  talk  to  me  about  Anna  Sartorius,  She  was  a  clever  young 
woman,  it  seemed — or,  as  he  called  her,  a  gescheidtes  Mddchen. 
She  could  talk  most  wonderfully.  She  had  traveled — she 
had  been  in  England  and  France,  and  seen  the  world,  said 
Karl.  They  all  passed  very  delightful  evenings  together 
sometimes,  diversified  with  music  and  song  and  the  racy  jest 
— at  which  times  Frau  Steinmann  became  quite  another  per- 
son, and  he,  Karl,  felt  himself  in  heaven. 

The  substance  of  all  this  was  told  me  by  him  one  day  at 
a  probe,  where  Eugen  had  been  conspicuous  by  his  absence. 
Perhaps  the  circumstance  reminded  Karl  of  some  previous 
conversation,  for  he  said: 

"  She  must  have  seen  Courvoisier  before  somewhere.  She 
asks  a  good  many  questions  about  him,  and  when  I  said  I 
knew  him  she  laughed." 

"  Look  here,  Karl,  don't  go  talking  to  ousiders  about  Eugen 
— or  any  of  us.  His  affairs  are  no  business  of  Fraulein  Sar- 
torius, or  any  other  busybody." 

"  I  talk  about  him!  What  do  you  mean?  Upon  my  word 
I  don't  know  how  the  conversation  took  that  turn;  but  I  am 
sure  she  knows  something  about  him.  She  said  '  Eugen 
Courvoisier  indeed! '  and  laughed  in  a  very  peculiar  way." 

"  She  is  a  fool.  So  are  you  if  you  let  her  talk  to  you  about 
him." 

"  She  is  no  fool,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  no  one  but  my  own 
Mddchen,"  said  he  easily;  "  but  when  a  woman  is  talking  one 
can't  stop  one's  ears." 

Time  passed.  The  concert  with  the  Choral  Symphony  fol- 
lowed. Karl  had  had  the  happiness  of  presenting  tickets  to 
Fraulein  Clara  and  her  aunt,  and  of  seeing  them,  in  company 
with  Miss  Sartorius,  enjoying  looking  at  the  dresses,  and  say- 
ing how  loud  the  music  was.  His  visits  to  Frau  Steinmann 
continued. 

"  Friedel,"  he  remarked  abruptly  one  day  to  me,  as  we 
paced  down  the  Casemenstrasse,  "I  wonder  who  CouT' 
voisier  is." 


264  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

"  You  have  managed  to  exist  very  comfortably  for  three  o* 
four  years  without  knowing." 

"  There  is  something  behind  all  this  secrecy  about  hinaself /* 

"  Fraulein  Sartorius  says  so,  I  suppose,"  I  remarked  dryly. 

"  N-no;  she  never  said  so;  but  I  think  she  knows  it  is  so." 

"And  what  if  it  be  so?" 

"  Oh,  nothing!  But  I  wonder  what  can  have  driven  him 
here." 

"  Driven  him  here?    His  own  choice,  of  course." 

Karl  laughed. 

"  Nee,  nee,  I'riedel,  not  quite." 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  let  him  and  his  affairs  alone,  unless 
you  want  a  row  with  him.  I  would  no  more  think  of  asking 
him  than  of  cutting  off  my  right  hand." 

"Asking  him — lieber  Himmel!  no;  but  one  may  wonder. 
It  was  a  very  queer  thing  his  sending  poor  Sigmund  off  in 
that  style.     I  wonder  where  he  is." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Did  he  never  tell  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Queer! "  said  Karl  reflectively.  "  I  think  there  is  some- 
thing odd  behind  it  all." 

"  Now,  hsten,  Karl.  Do  you  want  to  have  a  row  with 
Eugen?  Are  you  anxious  for  him  never  to  speak  to  you 
again?" 

"Eerrgott,no\'' 

"  Then  take  my  advice,  and  just  keep  your  mouth  shut. 
Don't  listen  to  tales,  and  don't  repeat  them." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  when  there  is  a  mystery  about  a 
man " 

"  Mystery!  Nonsense!  What  mystery  is  there  in  a  man's 
choosing  to  have  private  affairs?  We  didn't  behave  in  this 
idiotic  manner  when  you  were  going  on  like  a  lunatic  about 
Fraulein  Clara.  We  simply  assumed  that  as  you  didn't  speak 
you  had  affairs  which  you  chose  to  keep  to  yourself.  Just 
apply  the  rule,  or  it  may  be  worse  for  you." 

"  For  all  that  there  is  something  queer,"  he  said,  as  we 
turned  into  the  restauration  for  dinner. 

Yet  again,  some  days  later,  just  before  the  last  concert 
came  off,  Karl,  talking  to  me,  said,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  look 
as  if  the  idea  troubled  and  haunted  him: 

"  I  say,  Friedel,  do  you  think  Courvoisier's  being  here  is  all 
square?  " 


TRE  FIRST  riOLim  265 

"  All  square?  "  I  repeated  scornfully. 

He  nodded. 

"  Yes.  Of  course  all  has  been  right  since  he  came  here; 
but  don't  you  think  there  may  be  something  shady  in  the 
background?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  shady '?"  1  asked,  more  annoyed 
than  I  cared  to  confess  at  his  repeated  returning  to  the 
subject. 

"  Well,  you  know^  there  must  be  a  reason  for  his  being 
here " 

I  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  which  was  not  so  mirthful 
as  it  might  seem. 

"I  should  rather  think  there  must.  Isn't  there  a  reason 
for  everyone  being  somewhere?  Why  am  I  here?  Why  are 
you  here?  " 

"  Yes;  but  this  is  quite  a  different  thing.  We  are  all  agreed 
that  whatever  he  may  be  now  he  has  not  always  been  one  of 
us,  and  I  like  things  to  be  clear  about  people." 

"  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  that  you  should  only 
have  felt  the  anxiety  lately,"  said  I,  withering,  and  then, 
after  a  moment's  reflection,  I  said: 

"  Look  here,  Karl;  no  one  could  be  more  unwilling  than 
I  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  you,  but  quarrel  we  must  if  this 
talking  of  Eugen  behind  his  back  goes  on.  It  is  nothing 
to  either  of  us  what  his  past  has  been.  I  want  no  references. 
If  you  want  to  gossip  about  him  or  anyone  else,  go  to  the 
old  women  who  are  the  natural  exchanges  of  that  com- 
modity. Only  if  you  mention  it  again  to  me  it  comes  to 
a  quarrel — verstehst  du  9  " 

"  I  meant  no  harm,  and  I  can  see  no  harm  in  it,"  said 
he. 

"  Very  well;  but  I  do.  I  hate  it.  So  shake  hands,  and 
let  there  be  an  end  of  it.  I  wish  now  that  I  had  spoken  out 
at  first.  There's  a  dirtiness,  to  my  mind,  in  the  idea  of  specu- 
lating about  a  person  with  whom  you  are  intimate,  in  a  way 
that  you  wouldn't  like  him  to  hear." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  said  he;  but  there  was  not 
the  usual  look  of  open  satisfaction  upon  his  face.  He  did 
not  mention  the  subject  to  me  again,  but  I  caught  him  look- 
ing now  and  then  earnestly  at  Eugen,  as  if  he  wished  to  ask 
him  something.  Then  I  knew  that  in  my  anxiety  to  avoid 
gossiping  about  a  friend  whose  secrets  were  sacred  to  me,  I 
had  made  a  mistake.     I  ought  to  have  made  Karl  tell  me 


266  THE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

whether  he  had  heard  anything  specific  about  him  or  against 
him,  and  so  judge  the  extent  of  the  mischief  done. 

It  needed  but  little  thought  on  my  part  to  refer  Karl's 
suspicions  and  vague  rumors  to  the  agency  of  Anna  Sar- 
torius.  Lately  I  had  begun  to  observe  this  young  lady  more 
closely.  She  was  a  tall,  dark,  plain  girl,  with  large,  defiant- 
looking  eyes  and  a  bitter  mouth;  when  she  smiled  there  was 
nothing  genial  in  the  smile.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  had 
a  certain  harsh  flavor;  her  laugh  was  hard  and  mocking — as 
if  she  laughed  at,  not  with,  people.  There  was  something 
rather  striking  in  her  appearance,  but  little  pleasing.  She 
looked  at  odds  with  the  world,  or  with  her  lot  in  it,  or  with 
her  present  circumstances,  or  something.  I  was  satisfied  that 
she  knew  something  of  Eugen,  though,  when  I  once  pointed 
her  out  to  him  and  asked  if  he  knew  her,  he  looked  at 
her,  and,  after  a  moment's  look,  as  if  he  remembered,  shook 
his  head,  saying: 

"  There  is  something  a  little  familiar  to  me  in  her  face,  but 
I  am  sure  that  I  have  never  seen  her — most  assuredly  never 
spoken  to  her." 

Yet  I  had  often  seen  her  look  at  him  long  and  earnestly, 
usually  with  a  certain  peculiar  smile,  and  with  her  head  a 
little  to  one  side  as  if  she  examined  some  curiosity  or  lusus 
naturce.  I  was  too  little  curious  myself  to  know  Eugen's  past 
to  speculate  much  about  it;  but  I  was  quite  sure  that  there 
was  some  link  between  him  and  that  dark,  bitter,  sarcastic- 
looking  girl,  Anna  Sartorius. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Didst  thou,  or  didst  thou  not  ?    Just  tell  me,  friend  I 
Not  that  my  conscience  may  be  satisfied, 
/never  for  a  moment  doubted  thee — 
But  that  I  may  have  wherevpithal  in  hand 
To  turn  against  them  when  they  point  at  thee : 
A  whip  to  floe:  them  with — a  rock  to  crush— 
Thy  word — thy  simple  downright '  No,  I  did  not.* 

Why  f    How  i 
What's  this  ?    He  does  not,  will  not  speak.     Oh,  God  I 
Nay.  raise  thy  head  and  look  me  in  the  eyes  ! 
Canst  not  ?    What  is  this  thing  ?  " 

It  was  the  last  concert  of  the  season,  and  the  end  of  April, 
when  evenings  were  growing  pleasantly  long  and  the  air 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  267 

balmy.  Those  last  concerts,  and  the  last  nights  of  the  opera, 
which  closed  at  the  end  of  April,  until  September,  were 
always  crowded.  That  night  I  remember  we  had  Liszt'a 
"  Prometheus,"  and  a  great  violinist  had  been  announced  to 
enrapture  the  audience  with  the  performance  of  a  Concerto 
of  Beethoven's. 

The  concert  was  for  the  benefit  of  Von  Francius,  and  was 
probably  the  last  one  at  which  he  would  conduct  us.  He  was 
leaving  to  assume  the  post  of  Koniglicher  Musik-direktor  at 

.     ISTow  that  the  time  came  there  was  not  a  man  among 

us  who  was  not  heartily  sorry  to  think  of  the  parting. 

Miss  Wedderbum  was  one  of  the  soloists  that  evening  and 
her  sister  and  Mr.  Arkwright  were  both  there. 

Karl  Linders  came  on  late.  I  saw  that  just  before  he  ap- 
peared by  the  orchestra  entrance,  his  beloved,  her  aunt,  and 
Friiulein  Sartorius  had  taken  their  places  in  the  parquet. 
Karl  looked  sullen  and  discontented,  and  utterly  unlike  him- 
self. Anna  Sartorius  was  half  smiling.  Lady  Le  Marchant, 
I  noticed,  passingly,  looked  the  shadow  of  her  former  self. 

Then  Von  Francius  came  on;  he,  too,  looked  disturbed,  for 
liim  very  much  so,  and  glanced  round  the  orchestra  and  the 
room;  and  then  coming  up  to  Eugen,  drew  him  a  little  aside, 
and  seemed  to  put  a  question  to  him.  The  discussion,  though 
carried  on  in  low  tones,  was  animated,  and  lasted  some  time. 
Von  Francius  appeared  greatly  to  urge  Courvoisier  to  some- 
thing— the  latter  to  resist.  At  last  some  understanding  ap- 
peared to  be  come  to.  Von  Francius  returned  to  his  estrade, 
Eugen  to  his  seat,  and  the  concert  began. 

The  third  piece  on  the  list  was  the  Violin  Concerto,  and 
when  its  turn  came  all  eyes  turned  in  all  directions  in  search 
of ,  the  celebrated,  who  was  to  perform  it.  Von  Fran- 
cius advanced  and  made  a  short  enough  announcement. 

"  Meine  Herrschaften,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  received 
a  telegram  from  Herr ,  saying  that  sudden  illness  pre- 
vents his  playing  to-night.  I  am  sorry  that  you  should  be 
disappointed  of  hearing  him,  but  I  cannot  regret  that  you 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  listening  to  one  who  will  be  a 
very  effectual  substitute — Herr  Concertmeister  Courvoisier, 
your  first  violin." 

He  stepped  back.  Courvoisier  rose.  There  was  a  dead 
silence  in  the  hall.  Eugen  stood  in  the  well-known  position 
of  the  prophet  without  honor,  only  that  he  had  not  yet  begun 
to  speak.     The  rest  of  the  orchestra  and  Von  Francias  were 


268  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

waiting  to  begin  Beethoven's  Concerto;  but  Eugen,  lifting 
his  voice,  addressed  them  in  his  turn: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  dare  not  venture  upon  the  great 
Concerto;  it  is  so  long  since  I  attempted  it  I  shall  have 
pleasure  in  trying  to  play  a  Chaconne — one  of  the  composi- 
tions of  Herr  von  Francius." 

Von  Francius  started  up  as  if  to  forbid  it.  But  Eugen  had 
touched  the  right  key.  There  was  a  round  of  applause,  and 
then  an  expectant  settling  down  to  listen  on  the  part  of  the 
audience,  who  were,  perhaps,  better  pleased  to  hear  Von  Fran- 
cius, the  living  and  much  discussed,  than  Beethoven,  the  dead 
and  undisputed. 

It  was  a  minor  measure,  and  one  unknown  to  the  public, 
for  it  had  not  yet  been  published.  Von  Francius  had  lent 
Eugen  the  score  a  few  days  ago,  and  he  had  once  or  twice  said 
to  me  that  it  was  full  not  merely  of  talent;  it  was  replete  with 
the  fire  of  genius. 

And  so,  indeed,  he  proved  to  us  that  night.  Never,  before 
or  since,  from  professional  or  private  virtuoso,  have  I  heard 
such  playing  as  that.  The  work  was  in  itself  a  fine  one; 
original,  strong,  terse,  and  racy,  like  him  who  had  composed 
it.  It  was  sad,  Yery  sad,  but  there  was  a  magnificent  elevation 
running  all  through  it  which  raised  it  far  above  a  mere  com- 
plaint, gave  a  depth  to  its  tragedy  while  it  pointed  at  hope. 
And  this,  interpreted  by  Eugen,  whose  mood  and  whose  inner 
life  it  seemed  exactly  to  suit,  was  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten 
in  a  lifetime.  To  me  the  scene  and  the  sounds  come  freshly 
as  if  heard  yesterday.  I  see  the  great  hall  full  of  people, 
attentive — more  than  attentive — every  moment  more  in- 
thralled.  I  see  the  pleased  smile  which  had  broken  upon 
every  face  of  his  fellow-musicians  at  this  chance  of  distinction 
gradually  subside  into  admiration  and  profound  appreciation; 
I  feel  again  the  warm  glow  of  joy  which  filled  my  own  heart; 
I  meet  again  May's  eyes  and  see  the  light  in  them,  and  see 
Von  Francius  shade  his  face  with  his  hand  to  conceal  the  in- 
tensity of  the  artist's  delight  he  felt  at  hearing  his  own  crea- 
tion so  grandly,  so  passionately  interpreted. 

Then  I  see  how  it  was  all  over,  and  Eugen,  pale  with  the 
depth  of  emotion  with  which  he  had  played  the  passionate 
music,  retired,  and  there  came  a  burst  of  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause— applause  renewed  again  and  again — it  was  a  veritable 
Slice es  fou. 

But  he  would  make  no  response  to  the  plaudits.     He  re- 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  269 

mained  obstinately  seated,  and  there  was  no  elation,  but 
rather  gloom  upon  his  face.  In  vain  Von  Francius  besought 
him  to  come  forward.  He  declined,  and  the  calls  at  last 
ceased.  It  was  the  last  piece  on  the  first  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme. The  people  at  last  let  him  alone.  But  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  both  roused  a  great  interest  in 
himself  and  stimulated  the  popularity  of  Von  Francius  in  no 
common  degree.  And  at  last  he  had  to  go  down  the  orchestra 
steps  to  receive  a  great  many  congratulations,  and  go  through 
several  introductions,  while  I  sat  still  and  mentally  rubbed  my 
hands. 

Meanwhile  Karl  Linders,  with  nearly  all  the  other  instru- 
mentalists, had  disappeared  from  the  orchestra.  I  saw  him 
appear  again  in  the  body  of  the  hall,  among  all  the  people, 
who  were  standing  up,  laughing  and  discussing  and  roving 
about  to  talk  to  their  friends.  He  had  a  long  discussion  with 
Friiulein  Clara  and  Anna  Sartorius. 

And  then  I  turned  my  attention  to  Eugen  again,  who,  look- 
ing grave  and  undated,  released  himself  as  soon  as  possible 
from  his  group  of  new  acquaintance  and  Joined  me. 

Then  Von  Francius  brought  Miss  Wedderburn  up  the  steps, 
and  left  her  sitting  near  us.  She  turned  to  Eugen  and  said, 
^^  Icli  gratulire"  to  which  he  only  bowed  rather  sadly.  Her 
chair  was  quite  close  to  ours,  and  Von  Francius  stood  talking 
to  her.  Others  were  quickly  coming.  One  or  two  were 
around  and  behind  us. 

Eugen  was  tuning  his  violin,  when  a  touch  on  the  shoulder 
roused  me.  I  looked  up.  Karl  stood  there,  leaning  across 
me  toward  Eugen.  Something  in  his  face  told  me  that  it — 
that  which  had  been  hanging  so  long  over  us — was  coming. 
His  expression,  too,  attracted  the  attention  of  several  other 
people — of  all  who  were  immediately  around. 

Those  who  heard  Karl  were  myself.  Von  Francius,  Miss 
"Wedderburn,  and  some  two  or  three  others,  who  had 
looked  up  as  he  came,  and  had  paused  to  watch  what  was 
coming. 

"  Eugen,"  said  he,  "  a  foul  lie  has  been  told  about  you." 

«  So! " 

"  Of  course  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  I'm  not  such  a 
fool.  But  I  have  been  challenged  to  confront  you  with  it. 
It  only  needs  a  syllable  on  your  side  to  crush  it  instantly;  for 
I  will  take  your  word  against  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put 
together." 


2V0  THE  FIRST  VIOLIJSr. 

"  "Well  ? "  said  Eugen,  whose  face  was  white  and  whose 
voice  was  low. 

"  A  lady  has  said  to  me  that  you  had  a  hrother  who  had 
acted  the  part  of  father  to  you,  and  that  you  rewarded  hia 
kindness  by  forging  his  name  for  a  sum  of  money  which  you 
could  have  had  for  the  asking,  for  he  denied  you  nothing.  It 
is  almost  too  ridiculous  to  repeat,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
doing  it;  but  I  was  obliged.  Will  you  give  me  a  word  of 
denial?" 

Silence! 

I  looked  at  Eugen.  We  were  all  looking  at  him.  Three 
things  I  looked  for  as  equally  likely  for  him  to  do;  but  he  did 
none.  He  did  not  start  up  in  an  indignant  denial;  he  did  not 
utter  icily  an  icy  word  of  contempt;  he  did  not  smile  and 
ask  Karl  if  he  were  out  of  his  senses.  He  dropped  his  eyes, 
and  maintained  a  deadly  silence. 

Karl  was  looking  at  him,  and  his  candid  face  changed. 
Doubt,  fear,  dismay  succeeded  one  another  upon  it.  Then, 
in  a  lower  and  changed  voice,  as  if  first  admitting  the  idea 
that  caution  might  be  necessary: 

"  Um  Gotteswillen,  Eugen!     Speak!  " 

He  looked  up — so  may  look  a  dog  that  is  being  tortured — 
and  my  very  heart  sickened;  but  he  did  not  speak. 

A  few  moments — not  half  a  minute — did  we  remain  thus. 
It  seemed  a  hundred  years  of  slow  agony.  But  during  that 
time  I  tried  to  comprehend  that  my  friend  of  the  bright,  clear 
eyes,  and  open,  fearless  glance;  the  very  soul  and  flower  of 
honor;  my  ideal  of  almost  Quixotic  chivalrousness,  stood  with 
eyes  that  could  not  meet  ours  that  hung  upon  him;  face 
white,  expression  downcast,  accused  of  a  crime  which  came,  if 
ever  crime  did,  under  the  category  "dirty,"  and  not  deny- 
ing it! 

Karl,  the  wretched  beginner  of  the  wretched  scene,  came 
nearer,  took  the  other's  hand,  and,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  said: 

"  For  God's  sake,  Eugen,  speak!  Deny  it!  You  can  deny 
it — you  must  deny  it!  " 

He  looked  up  at  last,  with  a  tortured  gaze;  looked  at  Karl, 
at  me,  at  the  faces  around.  His  lips  quivered  faintly. 
Silence  yet.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  loathing 
that  was  most  strongly  depicted  upon  his  face;  the  loathing 
of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to  intimately  examine  some  unclean 
thing;  the  loathing  of  o^^e  who  has  to  drag  a  corpse  about 
with  him. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  271 

"  Say  it  is  a  lie,  Eugen!  "  Karl  conjured  him. 

At  last  came  speech;  at  li?st  an  answer;  slow,  low,  tremu- 
lous, impossible  to  mistake  or  explain  away. 

"  No;  I  cannot  say  so." 

His  head — that  proud,  high  head — dropped  again,  as  if  he 
would  fain  avoid  our  eyes. 

Karl  raised  himself.  His  face  too  was  white.  As  if 
stricken  with  some  mortal  blow,  he  walked  away.  Some 
people  who  had  surrounded  us  turned  aside  and  began  to 
whisper  to  each  other  behind  their  music.  Von  Francius 
looked  impenetrable;  May  Wedderbum  white.  The  noise 
and  bustle  was  still  going  on  all  around,  louder  than  before. 
The  drama  had  not  taken  three  minutes  to  play  out. 

Eugen  rested  his  brow  for  a  moment  on  his  hand,  and  his 
face  was  hidden.  He  looked  up,  rising  as  he  did  so,  and  his 
eyes  met  those  of  Miss  Wedderburn.  So  sad,  so  deep  a  gaze 
I  never  saw.  It  was  a  sign  to  me,  a  significant  one,  that  he 
could  meet  her  eyes. 

Then  he  turned  to  Von  Francius. 

"  Herr  Direktor,  Helfen  will  take  my  place,  nicM  wahr?  " 

Von  Francius  bowed.  Eugen  left  his  seat,  made  his  way, 
without  a  word,  from  the  orchestra,  and  Von  Francius  rapped 
sharply,  the  preliminary  tumult  subsided;  the  concert  began. 

I  glanced  once  or  twice  toward  Karl;  I  received  no  answer- 
ing look.  I  could  not  even  see  his  face;  he  had  made  himself 
as  small  as  possible  behind  his  music. 

The  concert  over — it  seemed  to  me  interminable — I  was 
hastening  away,  anxious  only  to  find  Eugen,  when  Karl  Lin- 
ders  stopped  me  in  a  retired  comer,  and  holding  me  fast,  said: 

"  Friedel,  I  am  a  d d  fool." 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  contradict  you." 

"  Listen,"  said  he.  "  You  must  listen,  or  I  shall  follow 
you  and  make  you.  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  hear  another 
word  against  him,  but  when  I  went  to  die  Clara  after  the 
solo,  I  found  her  and  that  confounded  girl  whispering  to- 
gether. She — Anna  Sartorius — said  it  was  very  fine  for  such 
scamps  to  cover  their  sins  with  music.  I  asked  her  pretty 
stiffly  what  she  meant,  for  she  is  always  slanging  Eugen,  and 
I  thought  she  might  have  let  him  alone  for  once.  She  said 
she  meant  that  he  was  a  blackguard — that's  the  word  she 
used — ein  lautcr  Spitzbube — a  forger,  and  worse.  I  told  her 
I  believed  it  was  a  lie.     I  did  not  believe  it. 

" '  Ask  him,'  said  she.    I  said  I  would  be — something—" 


^272  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

first.  But  Clara  would  have  notliing  to  say  to  me,  and  they 
both  badgered  me  until  for  mere  quietness  I  agreed  to  do  as 
they  wished." 

He  went  on  in  distress  for  some  time. 

"  Oh,  drop  it!  "  said  I  impatiently.  "  You  have  done  the 
mischief.  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  your  whining  over  it.  Go 
to  the  Fraulein  Steinmann  and  Sartorius.  They  will  confer 
the  reward  of  merit  upon  you." 

"Golt  hehute!" 

I  shook  myself  loose  from  him  and  took  my  way  home.  It 
was  with  a  feeling  not  far  removed  from  tremulousness  that 
I  entered  the  room.  That  poor  room  formed  a  temple  which 
I  had  no  intention  of  desecrating. 

He  was  sitting  at  the  table  when  I  entered,  and  looked  at 
me  absently.  Then,  with  a  smile  in  which  sweetness  and 
bitterness  were  strangely  mingled,  said: 

"  So  you  have  returned?  I  will  not  trouble  you  much 
longer.  Give  me  house-room  for  to-night.  In  the  morning 
I  shall  be  gone." 

I  went  up  to  him,  pushed  the  writing  materials  which  lay 
before  him  away,  and  took  his  hands,  but  could  not  speak  for 
ever  so  long. 

"  Well,  Friedhelm,"  he  asked  after  a  pause,  during  which 
the  drawn  and  tense  look  upon  his  face  relaxed  somewhat, 
*^  what  have  you  to  say  to  the  man  who  has  let  you  think  him 
honest  for  three  years?  " 

*'  Whom  I  know,  and  ever  have  known,  to  be  an  honest 
man." 

He  laughed. 

"  There  are  degrees  and  grades  even  in  honesty.  One  kind 
of  honesty  is  lower  than  others.  I  am  honest  now  because 
my  sin  has  found  me  out;  I  can't  keep  up  appearance  any 
longer." 

"Pooh!  do  you  suppose  that  deceives  me?"  said  I  con- 
temptuously. "  Me,  who  have  laiown  you  for  three  years? 
That  would  be  a  joke,  but  one  that  no  one  will  enjoy  at  my 
expense." 

A  momentary  expression  of  pleasure  unutterable  flashed 
across  his  face  and  into  his  eyes;  then  was  repressed,  as  he 
said: 

"  You  must  listen  to  reason.  Have  I  not  told  you  all  along 
that  my  life  had  been  spoiled  by  my  own  fault?  that  I  had 
idisqualified  myself  to  take  any  leading  part  among  men? — ■ 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  273 

that  others  might  advance,  but  I  should  remain  where  I  was? 
And  have  you  not  the  answer  to  all  here?  You  are  a  gen- 
erous soul,  I  know,  like  few  others.  My  keenest  regret  now 
is  that  I  did  not  tell  you  long  ago  how  things  stood,  but  it 
would  have  cost  me  your  friendship,  and  I  have  not  too  many 
things  to  make  life  sweet  to  me." 

"Eugen,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?  I  know  the 
reason;  for  the  very  same  reason  which  prevents  you  from 
looking  me  in  the  eyes  now,  and  saying,  '  I  am  guilty.  I  did 
that  of  which  I  am  accused,'  because  it  is  not  true.  I  chal- 
lenge you;  meet  my  eyes,  and  say,  '  I  am  guilty! '  " 

He  looked  at  me;  his  eyes  were  dim  with  anguish.  He 
said: 

"  Friedel,  I — cannot  tell  you  that  I  am  innocent." 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  to  do  so.  I  asked  you  to  say  you  were 
guilt3^  and  on  your  soul  be  it  if  you  lie  to  me.  That  I  could 
never  forgive." 

Again  he  looked  at  me,  strove  to  speak,  but  no  word  came. 
I  never  removed  my  eyes  from  his;  the  pause  grew  long,  till 
I  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  away  with  a  smile. 

"  Let  a  hundred  busybodies  raise  their  clamoring  tongues, 
they  can  never  divide  you  and  me.  If  it  were  not  insulting  I 
should  ask  you  to  believe  that  every  feeling  of  mine  for  you  is 
unchanged,  and  will  remain  so  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  It  is  incredible.  Such  loyalty,  such — Friedel,  you  are  a 
fool! " 

His  voice  broke. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Miss  "Wedderbum  sing  her 
English  song  after  you  were  gone.  It  was  called,  '  What 
would  You  do.  Love? '  and  she  made  us  all  cry." 

'*'  Ah.  Miss  Wedderburn!     How  delightful  she  is!  " 

"  If  it  is  any  comfort  to  you  to  know,  I  can  assure  you  that 
she  thinks  as  I  do.     I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  Comfort — not  much.  It  is  only  that  if  I  ever  allowed 
myself  to  fall  in  love  again,  which  I  shall  not  do,  it  would  be 
with  Miss  Wedderburn." 

The  tone  sufficiently  told  me  that  he  was  much  in  love  with 
her  already. 

"  She  is  bewitching,"  he  added. 

"  If  you  do  not  mean  to  allow  yourself  to  fall  in  love  with 
her,"  I  remarked  sententiously,  "  because  it  seems  that '  allow- 
ing '  is  a  matter  for  her  to  decide,  not  the  men  who  happen 
to  know  her." 


274  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"I  shall  not  see  mucli  more  of  her.  I  shall  not  remain 
here." 

As  this  was  what  I  had  fully  expected  to  hear,  I  said 
nothing,  hut  I  thought  of  Miss  Wedderbum,  and  grieved 
for  her. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  forth  from  hence,"  he  pursued.  "  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  be  satisfied  that  I  have  had  three  years  here. 
I  wonder  if  there  is  any  way  in  which  a  man  could  kill  all 
trace  of  his  old  self;  a  man  who  has  every  desire  to  lead 
henceforth  a  new  life,  and  be  at  peace  and  charity  with  all 
men.  I  suppose  not — no.  I  suppose  the  brand  has  to  be 
carried  about  till  the  last;  and  how  long  it  may  be  before  that 
*last'  comes!  " 

I  was  silent.  I  had  put  a  good  face  upon  the  matter  and 
spoken  bravely  about  it.  I  had  told  him  that  I  did  not  be- 
lieve him  guilty — that  my  regard  and  respect  were  as  high  as 
ever,  and  I  spoke  the  truth.  Both  before  and  since  then  he 
had  told  me  that  I  had  a  bump  of  veneration  and  one  of  be- 
lief ludicrously  out  of  proportion  to  the  exigencies  of  the  age 
in  which  I  lived. 

Be  it  so.  Despite  my  cheerful  words,  and  despite  the  belief 
I  did  feel  in  him,  I  could  not  help  seeing  that  he  carried  him- 
self now  as  a  marked  man.  The  free,  open  look  was  gone;  a 
blight  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  he  withered  under  it.  There 
was  what  the  English  call  a  "  down "  look  upon  his  face, 
which  had  not  been  there  formerly,  even  in  those  worst  days 
when  the  parting  from  Sigmund  was  immediately  before  and 
Ijehind  us. 

In  the  days  which  immediately  followed  the  scene  at  the 
concert  I  noticed  how  he  would  set  about  things  with  a  kind 
of  hurried  zeal,  then  suddenly  stop  and  throw  them  aside,  as 
if  sick  of  them,  and  fall  to  brooding  with  head  sunk  upon  his 
breast,  and  lowering  brow;  a  state  and  a  spectacle  which 
caused  me  pain  and  misery  not  to  be  described.  He  would 
begin  sudden  conversations  with  me,  starting  with  some  ques- 
tion, as: 

"  Friedel,  do  you  believe  in  a  future  state?  " 

"  I  do,  and  I  don't.  I  mean  to  say  that  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it." 

"  Do  you  know  what  my  idea  of  heaven  would  be?  " 

"Indeed,  don't  I!  "  said  I,  feebly  endeavoring  a  feeble  joke. 
"A  place  where  all  the  fiddles  are  by  Stradivarius  and 
Guamarius,  and  all  the  music  comes  up  to  Beethoven." 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  275 

**  N"o;  but  a  place  where  there  are  no  mistakes." 

"No  mistakes?  " 

"  J  a  wold !  Where  it  would  not  be  possible  for  a  man  with 
fair  chances  to  spoil  his  whole  career  by  a  single  mistake.  Or, 
if  there  were  mistakes,  I  would  arrange  that  the  punishment 
should  be  in  some  proportion  to  them — not  a  large  punish- 
ment for  a  little  sin,  and  vice  versa/' 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  if  there  is  any  heaven  there 
would  be  some  arrangement  of  that  kind." 

"  As  for  hell,"  he  went  on,  in  a  low,  calm  tone  which  I  had 
learned  to  understand  meant  with  him  intense  earnestness, 
"there  are  people  who  wonder  that  anyone  could  invent  a 
hell.  My  only  wonder  is  why  they  should  have  resorted  to 
fire  and  brimstone  to  enhance  its  terrors  when  they  had  the 
earth  full  of  misery  to  choose  from." 

"  You  think  tliis  world  a  hell,  Eugen?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  it  the  very  nethermost  hell  of  hells, 
and  I  think,  if  you  had  my  feelings,  you  would  think  so,  too. 
A  poet,  an  English  poet  (you  do  not  know  the  English  poets 
as  you  ought,  Friedhelm),  has  said  that  the  fiercest  of  all  hells 
is  the  failure  in  a  great  purpose.  I  used  to  think  that  a  fine 
sentiment;  now  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  to  a  man  who 
was  once  inclined  to  think  well  of  himself  it  may  not  be  a 
much  fiercer  trial  to  look  back  and  find  that  he  has  failed  to 
be  commonly  honest  and  upright.  It  is  a  nice  little  distinc- 
tion— a  moral  wire-drawing  which  I  would  recommend  to  the 
romancers,  if  I  knew  any." 

Once  and  only  once  was  Sigmund  mentioned  between  us, 
and  Eugen  said: 

"  Nine  years,  were  you  speaking  of?  No — not  in  nineteen, 
nor  in  ninety-nine  shall  I  ever  see  him  again." 

"Why?" 

"  The  other  night,  and  what  occurred  then,  decided  me. 
Till  then  I  had  some  consolation  in  thinking  that  the  blot 
might  perhaps  be  wiped  out — the  shame  lived  down.  Now  I 
see  that  that  is  a  fallacy.  With  God's  help  I  will  never  see 
him  nor  speak  to  him  again.  It  is  better  that  he  should  for- 
get me." 

His  voice  did  not  tremble  as  he  said  this,  though  I  knew 
that  the  idea  of  being  forgotten  by  Sigmund  must  be  to  him 
anguish  of  a  refinement  not  to  be  measured  by  me. 

I  bided  my  time,  saying  nothing.  I  at  least  was  too  much 
engrossed  with  my  own  affairs  to  foresee  the  cloud  then  first 


276  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

dawning  on  the  horizon,  which  they  who  looked  toward 
France  and  Spain  might  perhaps  perceive. 

It  had  not  come  yet — tlie  first  crack  of  that  thunder  which 
rattled  so  long  over  our  land,  and  when  we  saw  the  dingy  old 
Jager  Hof  at  one  end  of  the  Hofgarten,  and  heard  by  chance 
the  words  of  Hohenzollem-Sigmaringen,  no  premonition 
touched  us.  My  mind  was  made  up  that,  let  Eugen  go  when 
and  where  he  would,  I  would  go  with  him. 

I  had  no  ties  of  duty,  none  of  love  or  of  ambition  to  sepa- 
rate me  from  him;  his  God  should  be  my  God,  and  his  people 
my  people;  if  the  God  were  a  jealous  God,  dealing  out  wrath 
and  terror,  and  the  people  should  dwindle  to  outcasts  and 
pariahs,  it  mattered  not  to  me.    I  loved  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Nein,  langer  kann  ich  diesen  Kampf  niclit  kSmpfen, 

Den  Riesenkampf  der  Pflicht. 
Kannst  du  des  Herzens  Flamnientrieb  nicht  dampfen, 

So  fordre,  Tugend,  dieses  Opfer  nicht. 

Geschworen  hab'  ich  's,  ja,  ich  hab's  geschworen, 

Mich  selbst  zu  biindigen. 
Hier  ist  dein  Kranz,  er  sei  auf  ewig  mir  verloren  ; 

Nimm  ihn  zuriick  und  lass  mich  siindigen. 

— Schiller. 

If  I  had  never  had  a  trouble  before  I  had  one  now — ^large 
stalwart,  robust.  For  what  seemed  to  me  a  long  time  there 
was  present  to  my  mind's  eye  little  but  the  vision  of  a  large, 
lighted  room — a  great  undefined  crowd  surging  around  and 
below,  a  small  knot  of  persons  and  faces  in  sharp  distinctness 
immediately  around  me,  low-spoken  words  with  a  question; 
no  answer — vehement  imploring  for  an  answer — still  no 
reply;  yet  another  sentence  conjuring  denial,  and  then  the 
answer  itself — the  silence  that  succeeded  it;  the  face  which 
had  become  part  of  my  thoughts  all  changed  and  downcast — 
the  man  whom  I  had  looked  up  to,  feared,  honored,  as  chiv- 
alrous far  beyond  his  station  and  circumstances,  slowly  walk- 
ing away  from  the  company  of  his  fellows,  disgraced,  fallen, 
having  himself  owned  to  the  disgrace  being  merited;  pointed 
at  as  a  cheat — ^bowing  to  the  accusation. 

It  drove  me  almost  mad  to  tliink  of  it.  I  suffered  the  more 
keenly  because  I  could  speak  to  no  one  of  what  had  happened. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  277 

What  sympathy  should  I  get  from  any  living  soul  by  explain- 
ing my  sick  looks  and  absent  demeanor  with  the  words,  "  I 
love  that  man  who  is  disgraced?"  I  smiled  dryly  in  the 
midst  of  my  anguish,  and  locked  it  the  deeper  in  my  own 
breast. 

I  had  believed  in  him  so  devotedly,  so  intensely,  had  loved 
him  so  entirely,  and  with  such  a  humility,  such  a  conscious- 
ness of  my  own  shortcomings  and  of  his  superiority.  The 
recoil  at  first  was  such  as  one  might  experience  who  embraces 
a  veiled  figure,  presses  his  lips  to  where  its  lips  should  be, 
and  finds  that  he  kisses  a  corpse. 

Such,  I  say,  was  the  recoil  at  first.  But  a  recoil,  from  its 
very  nature,  is  short  and  vehement.  There  are  some  natures^ 
I  believe,  which  after  a  shock  turn  and  flee  from  the  shock- 
ing agent.  Not  so  I.  After  figuratively  springing  back 
and  pressing  my  hands  over  my  eyes,  I  removed  them  again, 
and  still  saw  his  face — and  it  tortured  me  to  have  to  own  it, 
but  I  had  to  do  so — still  loved  that  face  beyond  all  earthly 
things. 

It  grew  by  degrees  familiar  to  me  again.  I  caught  myself 
thinking  of  the  past  and  smiling  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
jokes  between  Eugen  and  Helfen  on  Carnival  Monday,  then 
pulled  myself  up  with  a  feeling  of  horror,  and  the  conviction 
that  I  had  no  business  to  be  thinli;ing  of  him  at  all.  But  I 
did  think  of  him  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  and  tortured 
myself  with  thinking  of  him,  and  wished,  yet  dreaded,  to  see 
him,  and  wondered  hov/  I  possibly  could  see  him,  and  could 
only  live  on  in  a  hope  which  was  not  fulfilled.  For  I  had  no 
right  to  seek  him  out.  His  condition  might  be  much — very 
much  to  me.  My  sympathy  or  pity  or  thought — as  I  felt  all 
too  keenly — could  be  nothing  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  Circumstance  com- 
posedly took  my  affairs  into  her  hands  and  settled  them  for 
me  without  my  being  able  to  move  a  finger  in  the  matter. 

The  time  was  approaching  for  tlie  departure  of  Von  Fran- 
cius.  Adelaide  and  I  did  not  exchange  a  syllable  upon  the 
subject.  Of  what  use?  I  knew  to  a  certain  extent  what  was 
passing  within  her.  I  knew  that  this  child  of  the  world — 
were  we  not  all  children  of  the  world,  and  not  of  light ?--had 
braced  her  moral  forces  to  meet  the  worst,  and  was  awaiting 
it  calmly. 

Adelaide,  like  me,  based  her  actions  not  upon  religion. 
Religion  was  for  both  of  us  an  utter  abstraction;  it  touched 


278  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

lis  not.  That  which  gave  Adelaide  force  to  withstand  temp- 
tation, and  to  remain  stoically  in  the  drear  sphere  in  which 
she  already  fomid  herself,  was  not  religion;  it  was  pride  on 
the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  love  for  Max  von  Francius. 

Pride  forbade  her  to  forfeit  her  reputation,  which  was  dear 
to  her,  though  her  position  had  lost  the  charms  with  which 
distance  had  once  gilded  it  for  her.  Love  for  Von  Francius 
made  her  struggle  with  all  the  force  of  her  nature  to  remain 
Avliere  she  was;  renounce  him  blamelessly  rather  than  yield  at 
the  price  which  women  must  pay  who  do  such  things  as  leave 
their  husbands. 

It  was  wonderful  to  me  to  see  how  love  had  developed  in 
her  every  higher  emotion.  I  remembered  how  cynical  she 
had  always  been  as  to  the  merits  of  her  own  sex.  Women, 
according  to  her,  were  an  inferior  race,  who  gained  their  poor 
ends  by  poor  means.  She  had  never  been  hard  upon  female 
trickery  and  subterfuge.  Bah!  she  said,  how  else  are  they  to 
get  what  they  want?  But  now,  with  the  exalted  opinion  of  a 
man,  had  come  exalted  ideas  as  to  the  woman  fit  for  his  wife. 

Since  to  go  to  him  she  must  be  stained  and  marked  forever, 
she  would  remain  away  from  him.  Never  should  any  circum- 
stances connected  with  him  be  made  small  or  contemptible  by 
any  act  of  hers.     I  read  the  motive,  and  reading  it,  read  her. 

Von  Francius  was,  equally  with  herself,  distinctly  and  em- 
phatically a  child  of  the  world — as  she  honored  him  he 
honored  her.  He  proved  his  strength  and  the  innate  nobility 
of  his  nature  by  his  stoic  abstinence  from  evasion  of  or  rebel- 
lion against  the  decree  which  had  gone  out  against  their  love. 
He  was  a  better  man,  a  greater  artist,  a  more  sympathetic 
nature  now  than  before.  His  passage  through  the  furnace 
had  cleansed  him.  He  was  a  standing  example  to  me  that 
despite  what  our  preachers  and  our  poets,  our  philosophers 
and  our  novelists,  are  incessantly  dinning  into  our  ears,  there 
are  yet  men  who  can  renounce — men  to  whom  honor  and 
purity  are  still  the  highest  goddesses. 

I  saw  him,  naturally,  and  often  during  these  days — so  dark 
for  all  of  us.  He  spoke  to  m_e  of  his  prospects  in  his  new 
post.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  write  to  him  occasionally,  even 
if  it  should  be  only  three  or  four  times  in  the  year. 

"  Indeed  I  will,  if  you  care  to  hear  from  me,"  said  I,  much 
moved. 

This  was  at  our  last  music  lesson,  in  my  dark  little  room  at 
the  Wehrhahn.     Von  Francius  had  made  it  indeed  a  lesson, 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  279 

;inore  than  a  lesson,  a  remembrance  to  carry  with  me  forever, 
for  he  had  been  playing  Beethoven  and  Schubert  to  me. 

"  Fraulein  May,  everything  concerning  you  and  yours  will 
ever  be  of  the  very  deepest  interest  to  me,"  he  said,  looking 
earnestly  at  me.  "  Take  a  few  words  of  advice  and  informa- 
tion from  one  who  has  never  felt  anything  for  you,  since  he 
first  met  you,  but  the  truest  friendship.  You  have  in  you  the 
materials  of  a  great  artist;  whether  you  have  the  Spartan 
courage  and  perseverance  requisite  to  attain  the  position,  I  can 
hardly  tell.  If  you  choose  to  become  an  artist,  dne,  vollcom- 
mene  Eunstlerin,  you  must  give  everything  else  up — love  and 
marriage  and  all  that  interferes  with  your  art,  for,  liebes  Frdu- 
lein,  you  cannot  pursue  two  things  at  once." 

"  Then  I  have  every  chance  of  becoming  as  great  an  artist 
as  possible,"  said  I;  "  for  none  of  those  things  will  ever  inter- 
fere with  the  pursuit  of  art." 

"Wait  till  the  time  of  probation  comes;  you  are  but 
eighteen  yet,"  said  he  kindly,  but  skeptically. 

"  Herr  von  Francius  " — the  words  started  to  my  lips  as  the 
truth  into  my  mind,  and  fell  from  them  in  the  strong  desire 
to  speak  to  someone  of  the  matter  that  then  filled  my  whole 
Boul — "  I  can  tell  you  the  truth — ^you  will  understand — the 
time  of  probation  has  been — it  is  over — past.  I  am  free  for 
the  future." 

"  So!  "  said  he  in  a  very  low  voice,  and  liin  eyes  were  filled, 
less  with  pity  than  with  a  fellow-feeling  which  made  them 
"  wondrous  kind."  *'  You  too  have  suffered,  and  given  up. 
laere  are  then  four  people — ^you  and  I,  and  one  whose  name 
I  will  not  speak,  and — may  I  guess  once,  Fraulein  May?  " 

I  bowed. 

"  My  first  violinist,  nicTit  wahr?  " 

Again  I  assented  silently.     He  went  on: 

"  Fate  is  perverse  about  these  things.  And  now,  my  fair 
pupil,  you  understand  somewhat  more  that  no  true  artist  is 
possible  without  sorrow  and  suffering  and  renunciation.  And 
you  will  think  sometimes  of  your  old,  fault-finding,  grum- 
bling master — ja?  " 

"  Oh,  Herr  von  Francius! "  cried  I,  laying  my  head  upon 
the  keyboard  of  the  piano  and  sobbing  aloud.  "  The  kind- 
est, best,  most  patient,  gentle " 

I  could  say  no  more. 

"  That  is  mere  nonsense,  my  dear  May,"  he  said,  passing 
his  hand  over  my  prostrate  head;  an^I  felt  that  it — the  strong 


280  THE  FIRST  VIOLIW. 

hand — trembled.     "I  want  a  promise  from  you.     Will  you 

sing  for  nie  next  season?  " 

"  If  I  am  alive,  and  you  send  for  me,  I  will." 

"  Thanks.  And — one  other  word.  Someone  very  dear  to 
us  both  is  very  sad;  she  will  become  sadder.  You,  my  child, 
have  the  power  of  alla3dng  sadness  and  soothing  grief  and 
bitterness  in  a  remarkable  degree.  Will  you  expend  some 
of  that  power  upon  her  when  her  burden  grows  very  hard, 
and  think  that  with  each  word  of  kindness  to  her  you  bind 
my  heart  more  fast  to  yourself?  " 

"  I  will— indeed  I  will!  " 

"  We  will  not  say  good-by,  but  only  auf  wiederselien ! " 
said  he.  "  You  and  I  shall  meet  again.  I  am  sure  of  that. 
Meine  Hebe,  gute  Schilleriti,  adieu!  " 

Choked  with  tears,  I  passively  let  him  raise  my  hand  to 
his  lips.  I  hid  my  face  in  my  handkerchief  to  repress  my 
fast-flowing  tears.  I  would  not,  because  I  dared  not,  look 
at  him.  The  sight  of  his  kind  and  trusted  face  would  give 
me  too  much  pain. 

He  loosed  my  hand.  I  heard  steps;  a  door  opened  and 
closed.  He  was  gone!  My  last  lesson  was  over.  My  trusty 
friend  had  departed.  He  was  to  leave  Elberthal  on  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

The  next  night  there  was  an  entertainment — half  concert, 
half  theatricals,  wholly  dilettante — at  the  Malkasten,  the 
Artists'  Club.  We,  as  is  the  duty  of  a  decorous  English 
family,  buried  ail  our  private  griefs  and  appeared  at  the  en- 
tertainment, to  which,  indeed,  Adelaide  had  received  a  special 
invitation.  I  was  going  to  remain  with  Adelaide  until  Sir 
Peter's  return,  which,  we  understood,  was  to  be  in  the  course 

of  a  few  weeks,  and  then  I  was  going  to ,  by  the  advice  of 

Von  Francius,  there  to  finish  my  studies. 

Dearly  though  I  loved  Music,  divine  as  she  ever  has  been, 
and  will  be,  to  me,  yet  the  idea  of  leaving  Von  Francius  for 
other  masters  had  at  first  almost  shalcen  my  resolution  to 
persevere.  But,  as  I  said,  all  this  was  taken  out  of  my  hands 
by  an  irresistible  concourse  of  circumstances  over  which  I  had 
simply  no  control  whatever, 

Adelaide,  Harry,  and  I  went  to  the  Malkasten.  The  gar- 
dens were  gayly  illuminated;  there  was  a  torchlight  proces- 
sion around  the  little  artificial  lake,  and  chorus  singing — 
merry  choruses,  such  as  "  Wann  S'^ei  sich  arut  sind,  sie  finden 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLnr.  281 

i3en  Weg" — -which  were  cheered  and  laughed  at.  The  fan- 
tastically dressed  artists  and  their  friends  were  flitting,  torch 
in  hand,  about  the  dark  alleys  under  the  twisted  acacias  and 
elms,  the  former  of  which  made  the  air  voluptuous  with  their 
scent.  Then  we  adjourned  to  the  saal  for  the  concert,  and 
heard  on  all  sides  regrets  about  the  absence  of  Von  Francius. 

We  sat  out  the  first  part  of  the  festivities,  which  were  to 
conclude  the  theatricals.  During  the  pause  we  went  into  the 
garden.  The  May  evening  was  balmy  and  beautiful;  no 
moonlight,  but  many  stars  and  the  twinkling  lights  in  the 
garden. 

Adelaide  and  I  had  seated  ourselves  on  a  circular  bench 
surrounding  a  big  tree,  which  had  the  mighty  v/ord  "  Goethe  " 
cut  deeply  into  its  rugged  bark.  When  the  others  began  to 
return  to  the  Malkasten,  Adelaide,  turning  to  Arkwright, 
said: 

"  Harry,  will  you  go  in  and  leave  my  sister  and  me  here, 
that's  a  good  boy?  You  can  call  for  us  when  the  play  is 
over." 

"  All  right,  my  lady,"  assented  he  amiably,  and  left  us. 

Presently  Adelaide  and  I  moved  to  another  seat,  near  to 
a  small  talale  under  a  thick  shade  of  trees.  The  pleasant, 
cool  evening  air  fanned  our  faces;  all  was  still  and  peaceful. 
Not  a  soul  but  ourselves  had  remained  out-of-doors.  The 
still  drama  of  the  marching  stars  was  no  less  attractive  than 
the  amateur  murdering  of  "  Die  Piccolomin  "  within.  The 
tree  tops  rustled  softly  over  our  heads.  The  lighted  pond 
gleamed  through  the  low-hanging  boughs  at  the  other  end 
of  the  garden.  A  peal  of  laughter  and  a  round  of  applause 
came  wkfted  now  and  then  from  within.  Ere  long  Adelaide's 
hand  stole  into  mine,  which  closed  over  it,  and  we  sat  silent. 

Then  there  came  a  voice.  Someone — a  complaisant  dilet- 
tantin — was  singing  Thekla's  song.  We  heard  the  refrain — 
distance  lent  enchantment;  it  sounded  what  it  really  was, 
deep  as  eternity: 

"  Icb  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet." 

Adelaide  moved  uneasily;  her  hand  started  nervously,  and 
a  sigh  broke  from  her  lips. 

"Schiller  wrote  from  his  heart,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice. 

"Indeed,  yes,  Adelaide." 

"Did  you" say  good-by  to  Von  Francius,  May,  yesterday?** 


283  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

*^Yes — at  least,  we  said  au  revoir.    He  wants  me  to  sing 
for  him  next  winter." 
"  Was  he  very  down?  " 
Yes — very.     He- 


^  A  footstep  close  at  hand.  A  figure  passed  in  the  uncertain 
light,  dimly  discerned  us,  paused,  and  glanced  at  us. 

"  Max!  "  exclaimed  Adelaide  in  a  low  voice,  full  of  surprise 
and  emotion,  and  she  half  started  up. 

"  It  is  you!     That  is  too  wonderful!  "  said  he,  pausing. 

"  You  are  not  yet  gone?  " 

"  I  have  been  detained  to-day.  I  leave  early  to-morrow. 
I  thought  I  would  take  at  least  one  turn  in  the  Malkasten 
garden,  which  I  may  perhaps  never  see  or  enter  again.  I 
did  not  know  you  were  here." 

"  We — May  and  I — ^thought  it  so  pleasant  that  we  would 
not  go  in  again  to  listen  to  the  play." 

Von  Francius  had  come  under  the  trees  and  was  now  lean- 
ing against  a  massive  trunk;  his  slight,  tall  figure  almost  lost 
against  it;  his  arms  folded,  and  an  imposing  calm  upon  his 
pale  face,  which  was  just  caught  by  the  gleam  of  a  lamp  out- 
side the  trees. 

"  Since  this  accidental  meeting  has  taken  place,  I  may  have 
the  privilege  of  saying  adieu  to  your  ladyship." 

"  Yes,"  said  Adelaide  in  a  strange,  low,  much-moved  tone. 

I  felt  uneasy,  I  was  sorry  this  meeting  had  taken  place. 
The  shock  and  revulsion  of  feeling  for  Adelaide,  after  she 
had  been  securely  calculating  that  Von  Francius  was  a  hun- 
dred miles  on  his  way  to ,  was  too  severe.     I  could  tell 

from  the  very  timbre  of  her  voice  and  its  faint  vibration  how 
agitated  she  was,  and  as  she  seated  herself  again  beside  me, 
I  felt  that  she  trembled  like  a  reed. 

"  It  is  more  happiness  than  I  expected,"  went  on  Von  Fran- 
cims,  and  his  voice,  too,  was  agitated.  Oh,  if  he  would  only 
say  "  Farewell  "  and  go! 

"  Happiness!  "  echoed  Adelaide,  in  a  tone  whose  wretched- 
ness was  too  deep  for  tears. 

**Ah!  You  correct  me.  Still  it  is  a  happiness;  there  are 
some  kinds  of  joy  which  one  cannot  distinguish  from  griefs, 
my  lady,  until  one  comes  to  think  that  one  might  have  been 
without  them,  and  then  one  knows  their  real  nature." 

She  clasped  her  hands.  I  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall  with 
long,  stormy  breaths. 

I  trembled  for  both;  for  Adelaide,  whose  emotion  and 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  283 

^anguisli  were,  I  saw,  mastering  her;  for  Yon  Francius,  be- 
cause, if  Adelaide  failed,  he  must  find  it  almost  impossible 
to  repulse  her. 

"  Herr  von  Francius,"  said  I,  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  making 
one  step  toward  him  and  laying  my  hand  upon  his  arm, 
"  leave  us!  If  you  do  love  us,"  I  added  in  a  whisper,  "  leave 
us!     Adelaide,  say  good-by  to  him — let  him  go!  " 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Von  Francius  to  me,  before  Ade- 
laide had  time  to  speak;  "  you  are  quite  right." 

A  pause.  He  stepped  up  to  Adelaide.  I  dared  not  inter- 
fere. Their  eyes  met,  and  his  will  not  to  yield  produced  the 
same  in  her,  in  the  shape  of  a  passive,  voiceless  acquiescence 
in  his  proceedings.     He  took  her  hands,  saying: 

"  ]\[y  Jacly,  adieu!  Heaven  send  you  peace,  or  death,  which 
brings  it,  or — whatever  is  best." 

Loosing  her  hands,  he  turned  to  me,  saying  distinctly: 

"  As  you  are  a  woman  and  her  sister,  do  not  forsake  her 
now." 

Then  he  was  gone.  She  raised  her  arms,  and  half  fell 
against  the  trunk  of  the  giant  acacia  beneath  which  we  had 
been  sitting,  face  forward,  as  if  drunk  with  misery. 

Von  Francius,  strong  and  generous,  whose  very  submission 
seemed  to  brace  one  to  meet  trouble  with  a  calmer,  firmer 
front,  was  gone.  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  did  not  even  feel 
startled,  only  darkly  certain  that  Adelaide's  evil  star  was  high 
in  the  heaven  of  her  fate,  when  I  saw,  calmly  regarding  us. 
Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant. 

In  another  moment  he  stood  beside  his  wife,  smiling,  and 
touched  her  shoulder;  with  a  low  cry  she  raised  her  face, 
shrinking  away  from  him.  She  did  not  seem  surprised  either, 
and  I  do  not  tliink  people  often  are  surprised  at  the  presence, 
however  sudden  and  unexpected,  of  their  evil  genius.  It  is 
good  luck  which  surprises  the  average  human  being. 

"You  give  me  a  cold  welcome,  my  lady,"  he  remarked. 
"You  are  so  overjoyed  to  see  me,  I  suppose!  Your  carriage 
is  waiting  outside.  I  came  in  it,  and  Arkwright  told  me  I 
should  find  you  here.  Suppose  you  come  home.  We  shall 
be  less  disturbed  there  than  in  these  public  gardens." 

Tone  and  words  all  convinced  me  that  he  had  heard 
most  of  what  had  passed,  and  would  oppress  her  with  it 
hereafter. 

The  late  scene  had  apparently  stunned  her.  After  the 
first  recoil  she  said,  scarcely  audibly,   "  I   am   ready,"    and 


284  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

moved.    He  offered  her  his  arm;  she  took  it,  turning  to  me 
and  saying,  "  Come,  May!  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  observed  Sir  Peter,  "  you  are  better  alone. 
I  am  sorry  I  cannot  second  your  invitation  to  my  charming 
sister-in-law.  I  do  not  think  you  fit  for  any  society — even 
hers." 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  sister.  Sir  Peter;  she  is  not  fit  to  be 
left,"  I  found  voice  to  say. 

"  She  is  not  '  left,'  as  you  say,  my  dear.  She  has  her  hus- 
band.    She  has  me,"  said  he. 

Some  few  further  words  passed.  I  do  not  chronicle  them. 
Sir  Peter  was  as  firm  as  a  rock — that  I  was  helpless  before 
him  is  a  matter  of  course.  I  saw  my  sister  handed  into  her 
carriage;  I  saw  Sir  Peter  follow  her — the  carriage  drive  away. 
I  was  left  alone,  half  mad  with  terror  at  the  idea  of  her  state, 
to  go  home  to  my  lodgings. 

Sir  Peter  had  heard  the  words  of  Von  Francius  to  me: 
*'  do  not  forsake  her  now,"  and  had  given  himself  the  satis- 
faction of  setting  them  aside  as  if  they  had  been  so  much 
waste  paper.  Von  Francius  was,  as  I  well  knew,  trying  to 
derive  comfort  in  this  very  moment  from  the  fact  that  I  at 
least  was  with  her;  I  who  loved  them  both,  and  would  have 
laid  down  my  life  for  them.  Well,  let  him  have  the  comfort! 
In  the  midst  of  my  sorrow  I  rejoiced  that  he  did  not  know 
the  worst,  and  would  not  be  likely  to  imagine  for  himself 
a  terror  grimmer  than  any  feeling  I  had  yet  known. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Some  say,  '  A  queen  discrowned,'  and  some  call  it  *  Woman's 
shame.'  Otliers  name  it  '  A  false  step,'  or  '  Social  suicide,'  just  as  it 
happens  to  strike  their  minds,  or  such  understanding  as  they  may  be 
blessed  with.  In  these  days  one  rarely  hears  seriously  mentioned  such 
unruly  words  as  '  Love,'  or  '  Wretchedness,'  or  '  Despair,'  which  may 
nevertlieless  be  important  factors  in  bringing  about  that  result  which 
Stands  out  to  the  light  of  day  for  public  inspection." 

The  three  days  which  I  passed  alone  and  in  suspense  were 
very  terrible  ones  to  me.  I  felt  myself  plwsically  as  well  as 
mentally  ill,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  learn  anything 
of  or  from  Adelaide,  and  I  waited  in  a  kind  of  breathless 
eagerness  for  the  end  of  it  all,  for  I  knew,  as  well  as  if  some- 
one had  shouted  it  aloud  from  the  house-tops,  that  tb^t  fare- 
.-t-ell  in  the  Malkasten  garden  was  not  the  end. 


THE  FIBST  yiOLIN.  285 

Eaxly  one  morning,  when  the  birds  \yere  singing  and  the 
sunshine  streaming  into  the  room,  Frau  Lutzler  came  into 
the  room  and  put  a  letter  into  my  hand,  which  she  said  a 
messenger  had  left.  I  took  it,  and  paused  a  moment  before 
I  opened  it,  I  was  unwilHng  to  face  what  I  knew  was  com- 
ing— and  yet,  how  otherwise  could  the  whole  story  have 
ended? 

"Deae  May:  You,  like  me,  have  been  suffering  during 
these  days.  I  have  been  trying — yes,  I  have  tried  to  believe 
I  could  bear  this  life,  but  it  is  too  horrible.  Isn't  it  possible 
that  sometimes  it  may  be  right  to  do  wrong?  It  is  of  no 
use  telling  you  what  has  passed,  but  it  is  enough.  I  believe 
I  am  only  putting  the  crowning  point  to  my  husband's  re- 
venge when  I  leave  him.  He  will  be  glad — he  does  not  mind 
the  disgrace  for  himself;  and  he  can  get  another  wife,  as  good 
as  I,  when  he  wants  one.  When  you  read  this,  or  not  long 
afterward,  I  shall  be  with  Max  von  Francius.  I  wrote  to  him 
— I  asked  him  to  save  me,  and  he  said,  '  Come! '  It  is  not 
because  I  want  to  go,  but  I  must  go  somewhere.  I  have  made 
a  great  mess  of  my  life.  I  believe  evcr}'body  does  make  a 
mess  of  it  who  tries  to  arrange  things  for  himself.  Eemem- 
ber  that.  May. 

"  1  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again.  Not  likely,  when 
you  are  married  to  some  respectable,  conventional  man,  who 
will  shield  you  from  contamination  with  such  as  I.  I  must 
not  write  more  or  I  shall  write  nonsense.  Good-by,  good-by, 
good-by!  What  will  be  the  end  of  me?  Think  of  me  some- 
times, and  try  not  to  think  too  hardly.  Listen  to  your  heart, 
not  to  what  people  say.     Good-by  again! 

"  Adelaide." 

I  received  this  stroke  without  groan  or  cry,  tear  or  shiver. 
It  struck  home  to  me.  The  heavens  were  riven  asunder — a 
flash  came  from  them,  descended  upon  my  head,  and  left  me 
desolate.  I  stood,  I  know  not  how  long,  stock-still  in  the 
'place  where  I  had  read  that  letter.  In  novels  I  had  read  of 
such  things;  they  had  had  little  meaning  to  me.  In  real  life 
I  had  only  heard  them  mentioned  dimly  and  distantly,  and 
here  I  was  face  to  face  with  the  awful  thing,  and  so  far  from 
being  able  to  deal  out  hearty,  untempered  condemnation.  I 
found  that  the  words  of  Adelaide's  letter  came  to  me  like 
throes  of  a  real  heart.    Bald,  dry,  disjointed  sentences  on  the 


286  THE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

outside;  without  feeling  they  might  seem,  hut  to  me  they 
were  the  breathless  exclamations  of  a  soul  in  supreme  torture 
and  peril.  My  sister!  with  what  a  passion  of  love  my  heart 
went  out  to  her.  Think  of  you,  Adelaide,  and  think  of  you 
not  too  hardly?     Oh,  why  did  not  you  trust  me  more? 

I  saw  her  as  she  wrote  these  words:  "  I  have  made  a  great 
mess  of  it."  To  make  a  mess  of  one's  life — one  mistake 
after  another,  till  what  might  have  been  at  least  honest,  pure, 
and  of  good  report,  becomes  a  stained,  limp,  unsightly  thing, 
at  which  men  feel  that  they  may  gaze  openly,  and  from 
which  women  turn  away  in  scorn  unutterable;  and  that  Ade- 
laide, my  proudest  of  proud  sisters,  had  come  to  this! 

I  was  not  thinking  of  what  people  would  say.  I  was  not 
wondering  how  it  had  come  about;  I  was  feeling  Adelaide's 
words  ever  more  and  more  acutely,  till  they  seemed  to  stand 
out  from  the  paper  and  turn  into  cries  of  anguish  in  my  very 
ears.  I  put  my  hands  to  my  ears;  I  could  not  bear  those 
notes  of  despair. 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  me?"  she  said,  and  I  shook 
from  head  to  foot  as  I  repeated  the  question.  If  her  will  and 
that  of  Von  Francius  ever  came  in  contact!  She  had  put 
herself  at  his  mercy  utterly;  her  whole  future  now  depended 
upon  the  good  pleasure  of  a  man — and  men  were  selfish. 

"With  a  faint  cry  of  terror  and  foreboding  I  felt  everything 
whirl  unsteadily  around  me;  the  letter  fell  from  my  hand; 
the  icy  band  that  had  held  me  fast  gave  way.  All  things 
faded  before  me,  and  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  was  sinking  upon 
the  floor.  I  thought  I  was  dying;  then  thought  faded  with 
the  consciousness  that  brings  it. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Allein,  allein  !  und  so  soil  ich  genesen? 
Allein,  allein  !  und  das  des  Schicksals  Segen ! 
Allein,  allein  i  O  Gott,  ein  einzi?  Wesen, 
Urn  dieses  Haupt  an  seine  Brust  zu  legen  !  " 

1  HAD  a  sharp,  if  not  a  long  attack  of  illness,  which  left  me 
weak,  shaken,  passive,  so  that  I  felt  neither  ability  nor  wish 
to  resist  those  who  took  me  into  their  hands.  I  remember 
being  surprised  at  the  goodness  of  ever}'one  toward  me;  aston- 
ished at  Frau  lAitzler's  gentle  kindness,  amazed  at  the  unfail- 
ing goodness  of  Dr.  Mittendorf  and  his  wife,  at  that  of  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  287 

Tnedical  man  who  attended  me  in  my  illness.  Yes,  the  world 
seemed  full  of  kindness,  full  of  kind  people  who  were  anxious 
to  keep  me  in  it,  and  who  managed,  in  spite  of  my  effort  to 
leave  it,  to  retain  me. 

Dr.  Mittendorf,  the  oculist,  had  been  my  guardian  angel. 
It  was  he  who  wrote  to  my  friends  and  told  them  of  my  ill- 
ness; it  was  he  who  went  to  meet  Stella  and  Miss  Hallam's 
Merrick,  who  came  over  to  nurse  me — and  take  me  home. 
The  fiat  had  gone  forth.  I  was  to  go  home.  I  made  no 
resistance,  but  my  very  heart  shrunk  away  in  fear  and  terror 
from  the  parting,  till  one  day  something  happened  which 
reconciled  me  to  going  home,  or  rather  made  me  evenly  and 
equally  indifferent  whether  I  went  home,  or  stayed  abroad, 
or  lived,  or  died,  or,  in  short,  what  became  of  me. 

I  sat  one  afternoon  for  the  first  time  in  an  armchair  oppo- 
site the  window.  It  was  June,  and  the  sun  streamed  warmly 
and  richly  in.  The  room  was  scented  with  a  bunch  of  wall- 
flowers and  another  of  mignonette,  which  Stella  had  brought 
in  that  morning  from  the  market.  Stella  was  very  kind  to 
me,  but  in  a  superior,  patronizing  way.  I  had  always  felt 
deferentially  backward  before  the  superior  abilities  of  both 
my  sisters,  but  Stella  quite  overawed  me  by  her  decided 
opinions  and  calm  way  of  setting  me  right  upon  all  possible 
matters. 

This  afternoon  she  had  gone  out  with  Merrick  to  enjoy 
a  little  fresh  air.  I  was  left  quite  alone,  with  my  hands  in 
my  lap,  feeling  very  weak,  and  looking  wistfully  toward  the 
well-remembered  windows  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

They  were  wide  open;  I  could  see  inside  the  room.  No 
one  was  there — Friedhelm  and  Eugen  had  gone  out,  no 
doubt. 

The  door  of  my  room  opened  and  Frau  Lutzler  came  in. 
She  looked  cautiously  around,  and  then,  having  ascertained 
that  I  was  not  asleep,  asked  in  3,  nerve-disturbing  whisper 
if  I  had  everything  that  I  wanted. 

"Everything,  thank  you,  Frau  Lutzler,"  said  I.  "But 
come  in!  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  am  afraid  I  have  given 
you  no  end  of  trouble." 

"  Ach,  ich  hitte  Sie,  Frdulein!  Don't  mention  the  trouble. 
"We  have  managed  to  keep  you  alive." 

How  they  all  did  rejoice  in  having  won  a  victory  over  that 
gray- winged  angel.  Death!  I  thought  to  myself,  with  a  curious 
sensation  of  wonder. 


288  TE£  Fr^^niT  VIOLIN. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  feaid,  "  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
something,  Frau  Lutzler:  lio'y  long  have  I  been  ill?" 

"  Fourteen  days,  Fraulein;  little  as  you  may  think  it." 

"  Indeed!  I  have  heard  nothing  about  anyone  in  that 
time.  Who  has  been  made  Musik-direktor  in  place  of  Heir 
von  Francius?  " 

Frau  Lutzler  folded  her  arms  and  composed  herself  to  tell 
me  a  history. 

"  t/a,  Frdulem,  the  post  ^ould  have  been  offered  to  Hen 
Courvoisier,  only,  you  sec,  he  has  turned  out  a  good-for- 
nothing.     But  perhaps  yrii  h^drd  Konnt  that?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  I  know  ai'  df?cmt  ->t,''  said  I  hastily,  as  I  passed 
my  handkerchief  over  Bay  mouth  to  hide  the  spasm  of  pain 
which  contracted  it. 

"  Of  course,  considering  all  that,  the  Direktion  could  not 
offer  it  to  him,  so  they  proposed  it  to  Herr  Helfen — ^you  know 
Herr  Helfen,  Fraulein,  nicht?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  A  good  young  man!  a  worthy  young  man,  and  so  popular 
with  his  companions!  Aher  denken  Sie  nur!  The  authori- 
ties might  have  been  offering  him  an  insult  instead  of  a  good 
post.  He  refused  it  then  and  there;  would  not  stop  to  con- 
sider about  it — in  fact,  he  was  quite  angry  about  it.  The 
gentleman  who  was  chosen  at  last  was  a  stranger,  from 
Hanover." 

"  Herr  Helfen  refused  it — why,  do  you  know?  " 

"  They  say,  because  he  was  so  fond  of  HeiT  Courvoisier, 
and  would  not  be  set  above,  him.  It  may  be  so.  I  know  for 
a  certainty  that,  so  far  from  taking  part  against  Herr  Cour- 
voisier, he  would  not  even  believe  the  story  against  him, 
though  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  did  not  try  to  deny  it. 
Aher,  Fraulein — what  hearts  men  must  have!  To  have  lived 
three  years,  and  let  the  world  think  him  an  honest  man,  when 
all  the  time  he  had  that  on  his  conscience!     SchrecklicJi! " 

Adelaide  and  Courvoisier,  it  seemed,  might  almost  be  pelted 
with  the  same  stones. 

"  His  wife,  they  say,  died  of  grief  at  the  disgrace " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  wincing,  I  could  not  bear  this  any  longer, 
nor  to  discuss  Cotirvoisier  with  Frau  Lutzler,  and  the  words 
"his  wife,"  uttered  in  that  speculatively  gossiping  tone,  re- 
pelled me.     She  turned  the  subject  to  Helfen  again. 

"  Herr  Helfen  must  indeed  have  loved  his  friend,  for  when 
Herr  Courvoisier  went  away  he  v/ent  ^nth  him." 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  289 

**"  Herr  Courvoisier  is  gone?  "  I  inquired,  in  a  voice  so  like 
my  usual  one  that  I  was  surprised. 

"  Yes,  certainly  he  is  gone.  I  don't  know  where,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Perhaps  they  will  return  ?  " 

Frau  Lutzler  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  slightly. 

"Nee,  Friiulein!  Their  places  were  filled  immediately. 
They  are  gone — ganz  und  gar.'' 

I  tried  to  listen  to  her,  tried  to  answer  her  as  she  went  or- 
giving  her  opinions  upon  men  and  things,  but  the  effort  col- 
lapsed suddenly.  I  had  at  last  to  turn  my  head  away  and  dose 
my  eyes,  and  in  that  weary,  weary  moment  I  prayed  to  God 
that  he  would  let  me  die,  and  wondered  again,  and  was  almost 
angry  with  those  who  had  nursed  me,  for  having  done  their 
work  so  Avell.  "  We  have  managed  to  save  you,"  Frau  Lutzler 
had  said.     Save  me  from  what,  and  for  what? 

I  knew  the  truth,  as  I  sat  there;  it  was  quite  too  strong  and 
too  clear  to  be  laid  aside,  or  looked  upon  with  doubtful  eyes. 
I  was  confronted  by  a  fact,  humiliating  or  not — a  fact  which 
I  could  not  deny. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  who 
had  never  showed  me  by  word  or  sign  that  he  cared  for  me, 
but  exactly  and  pointedly  the  reverse;  but  now  it  seemed  the 
man  himself  was  bad,  too.  Surely  a  well-regulated  mind 
would  have  turned  away  from  him — uninfluenced. 

If  so,  then  mine  was  an  ill-regulated  mind.  I  had  loved 
him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart;  the  world  without  him 
felt  cold,  empty,  and  bare-— desolate  to  live  in,  and  shorn 
of  its  sweetest  pleasures.  He  had  influenced  me,  he  influ- 
enced me  yet — I  still  felt  the  words  true: 

*'  The  greater  soul  that  draweth  thee 
Hath  left  his  shadow  plain  to  see 
On  thy  fair  face,  Persephone  1 " 

He  had  bewitched  me;  I  did  feel  capable  of  "^  making 
a  fool  of  myself  "  for  his  sake.  I  did  feel  that  life  by  the 
side  of  any  other  man  would  be  miserable,  though  never  so 
richly  set;  and  that  life  by  his  side  would  be  full  and  com- 
plete, though  never  so  poor  and  sparing  in  its  circumstances. 
I  make  no  excuses,  no  apologies  for  this  state  of  things.  It 
simply  was  so. 

Gone!  And  Friedhelm  with  him!  I  should  probably  never 
eee  either  of  them  again.     *'  I  have  made  a  mess  of  my  life/' 


290  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Adelaide  had  said,  and  I  felt  that  I  might  chant  the  same 
dirge.  A  fine  ending  to  my  boasted  artistic  career!  I  thought 
of  how  I  had  sat  ajid  chattered  so  aimlessly  to  Courvoisier 
in  the  cathedral  at  Koln,  and  had  little  known  how  large 
and  how  deep  a  shadow  his  influence  was  to  cast  over  my  life. 
I  still  retained  a  habit  of  occasionally  kneeling  by  my  bed- 
side and  saying  my  prayers,  and  this  night  I  felt  the  impulse 
to  do  so.  I  tried  to  thank  God  for  my  recovery.  I  said  the 
Lord's  Prayer;  it  is  a  universal  petition  and  thanksgiving; 
it  did  not  too  nearly  touch  my  woes;  it  allowed  itself  to  be 
said,  but  when  I  came  to  something  nearer,  tried  to  say  a 
thanksgiving  for  blessings  and  friends  who  yet  remained,  my 
heart  refused,  my  tongue  cleaved  to  my  mouth.  Alas!  I  was 
not  regenerate.  I  could  not  thank  God  for  what  had  hap- 
pened. I  found  myself  thinking  of  "  the  pity  on't,"  and  cry- 
ing most  bitterly  till  tears  streamed  through  my  folded  fin- 
gers, and  whispering,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only  have  died  while  I 
was  so  ill!  no  one  would  have  missed  me,  and  it  would  have 
been  so  much  better  for  me!  " 

In  the  beginning  of  July,  Stella,  Merrick,  and  I  returned 
to  England,  to  Skemford,  home.  I  parted  in  silent  tears 
from  my  trusted  friends,  the  Mittendorfs,  who  begged  me 
to  come  and  stay  with  them  at  some  future  day.  The 
anguish  of  leaving  Elberthal  did  not  make  itself  fully  felt  at 
first — that  remained  to  torment  me  at  a  future  day.  And 
soon  after  our  return  came,  printed  in  large  type  in  all  the 
newspapers,  "Declaration  of  War  between  France  and  Ger- 
many." Mine  was  among  the  hearts  which  panted  and  beat 
with  sickening  terror  in  England  while  the  dogs  of  war  were 
fastened  in  deadly  grip  abroad. 

My  time  at  home  was  spent  more  with  Miss  Hallam  than 
in  my  own  home.  I  found  her  looking  much  older,  much 
feebler,  and  much  more  subdued  than  when  she  had  been  in 
Germany.  She  seemed  to  find  some  comfort  from  my  society, 
and  I  was  glad  to  devote  myself  to  her.  But  for  her  I  should 
never  have  known  all  those  pains  and  pleasures  which,  bitter 
though  their  remembrance  might  be,  were,  and  ever  would 
be  to  me,  the  dearest  thing  of  my  life. 

Miss  Hallam  seemed  to  know  tliis;  she  once  asked  me: 
''Would  I  return  to  Germany  if  I  could? " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  would." 
.  To  say  that  I  found  life  dull,  even  in  Skemford,  at  that 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  291 

time  would  be  untrue.  Miss  HaJlam  was  a  furious  partisan 
of  the  French,  and  I  dared  not  mention  the  war  to  her,  but 
I  took  in  the  Daily  News  from  my  private  funds,  and  read  it 
in  my  bedroom  every  night  with  dimmed  eyes,  and  coming 
breath,  and  beating  heart.  I  knew — knew  well,  that  Eugen 
must  be  fighting — unless  he  were  dead.  And  I  knew,  too, 
by  some  intuition  founded,  I  suppose,  on  many  small  negative 
evidences  unheeded  at  the  time,  that  he  would  fight,  not  like 
the  other  men  who  were  battling  for  the  sake  of  hearth  and 
home  and  sheer  love  and  pride  for  the  Fatherland,  but  as  one 
who  has  no  home  and  no  fatherland;  as  one  who  seeks  a 
grave,  not  as  one  who  combats  a  wrong, 

Stella  saw  the  pile  of  newspapers  in  my  room,  and 
asked  me  how  I  could  read  those  dreary  accounts  of  battles 
and  bombardments.  Beyond  these  poor  newspapers  I  had, 
during  the  sixteen  months  that  I  was  at  home,  but  scant 
tidings  from  without.  I  had  implored  Clara  Steinmann 
to  write  me  now  and  then,  and  tell  me  the  news  of 
Elberthal,  but  her  penmanship  was  of  the  most  modest 
and  retiring  description,  and  she  was,  too,  so  desperately 
excited  about  Karl  as  to  be  able  to  think  scarce  of  any- 
thing else.  Karl  belonged  to  a  Landwehr  regiment  which 
had  not  yet  been  called  out,  but  to  which  that  frightful 
contingency  might  happen  any  day;  and  what  should  she, 
Clara,  do  in  that  case?  She  told  me  no  news;  she  lamented 
over  the  possibility  of  Karl's  being  summoned  upon  active 
service.  It  was,  she  said,  grausam,  schrecMich !  It  made 
her  almost  faint  to  write  about  it,  and  yet  she  did  com- 
pose four  whole  pages  in  that  condition.  The  barrack,  she 
informed  me,  was  turned  into  a  hospital,  and  she  and 
"  Tante  "  both  worked  hard.  There  was  much  work — dread- 
ful work  to  do — such  poor  groaning  fellows  to  nurse!  "  Herr- 
gott!  "  cried  poor  little  Clara,  "  I  did  not  know  that  the  world 
was  such  a  dreadful  place! "  Everything  was  so  dear,  so 
frightfully  dear,  and  Karl — that  was  the  burden  of  her  song 
— might  have  to  go  into  battle  any  day. 

Also  through  the  public  papers  I  learned  that  Adelaide 
and  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant  were  divided  forever.  As  to  what 
happened  afterward  I  was  for  some  time  in  uncertainty,  long- 
ing most  intensely  to  know,  not  daring  to  speak  of  it.  Ade- 
laide's name  was  the  signal  for  a  cold  stare  from  Stella,  and 
angry,  indignant  expostulation  from  Miss  Hallam.  To  me 
it  was  a  sorrowful  spell  which  I  carried  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 


292  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

One  day  I  saw  in  a  German  musical  periodical  which  I  took 
in,    this    announcement:  "  Herr    Musik-direktor    Max    von 

Francius  in  has  lately  published  a  new  symphony  in 

B  minor.  The  productions  of  tliis  gifted  composer  are  slowly 
but  surely  maldng  the  mark  which  they  deserve  to  leave  in 
the  musical  histoiy  of  our  nation;  he  has,  we  believe,  left 

for for  a  few  weeks  to  join  his  lady  {seine  Gemah- 

lin),  who  is  one  of  the  most  active  and  valuable  hospital 
nurses  of  that  town,  now,  alas!  little  else  than  a  hospital." 

This  paragraph  set  my  heart  beating  wildly.  Adelaide 
was  then  the  wife  of  Von  Francius.  My  heart  yearned  from 
my  solitude  toward  them  both.  Why  did  not  they  write? 
Tliey  knew  how  I  loved  them.  Adelaide  could  not  suppose 
that  I  looked  upon  her  deed  with  the  eyes  of  the  world  at 
large — with  the  eyes  of  Stella  or  Miss  Hallam.  Had  I  not 
grieved  with  her?  Had  I  not  seen  the  dreadful  struggle? 
Had  I  not  proved  the  nobihty  of  Von  Francius?  On  an 
impulse  I  seized  pen  and  paper,  and  wrote  to  Adelaide,  ad- 
dressing my  letter  under  cover  to  her  husband  at  the  town 
in  which  he  was  musik-direktor;  to  him  I  also  wrote — only 
a  few  words:  "Is  your  pupil  forgotten  by  her  master?  He 
has  never  been  forgotten  by  her." 

At  last  the  answer  came.  On  the  part  of  Adelaide  it  was 
short: 

"  Deae  Mat:  I  have  had  no  time  till  now  to  answer  your 
letter.  I  cannot  reply  to  all  your  questions.  You  ask  whether 
I  repent  what  I  have  done.  I  repent  my  whole  life.  If  I 
am  happy — how  can  I  be  happy?  I  am  busy  now,  and  have 
many  calls  upon  my  time.  My  husband  is  very  good;  he 
never  interposes  between  me  and  my  work.  Shall  I  ever 
come  to  England  again? — never. 

"  Yours, 

«  A.  VON  F." 

No  request  to  write  again!  Ne  inquiry  after  friends  or 
relations!  This  letter  showed  me  that  whatever  I  might  feel 
to  her — however  my  heart  might  beat  and  long,  how  warm 
soever  the  love  I  bore  her,  yet  that  Adelaide  was  now  apart 
from  me — divided  in  every  thought.  It  was  a  cruel  letter, 
but  in  my  pain  I  could  not  see  that  it  had  not  been  cruelly 
intended.  Her  nature  had  changed.  But  behind  this  pain 
lay  comfort.     On  the  back  of  the  same  sheet  as  that  on  which 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLm.  293 

Adelaide's  curt  epistle  was  written,  were  some  lines  in  the 
hand  I  knew  well. 

"LiEBE  Mai  [they  said]:  Forgive  your  master,  who  can 
never  forget  you,  nor  ever  cease  to  love  you.  You  suffer.  I 
know  it;  I  read  it  in  those  short,  constrained  lines,  so  unlike 
your  spontaneous  words  and  frank  smile.  My  dear  child, 
remember  the  storms  that  are  beating  on  every  side,  over  our 
country,  in  on  our  hearts.  Once  I  asked  you  to  sing  for  me 
some  time:  you  promised.  When  the  war  is  over  I  shall  re- 
mind you  of  your  promise.  At  present,  believe  me,  silence  is 
best. 

"  Your  old  music-master, 

"  M.  V.  F." 

Gall  and  honey,  roses  and  thistles,  a  dagger  at  the  heart 
and  a  caress  upon  the  lips;  such  seemed  to  me  the  character 
of  the  two  letters  on  the  same  sheet  which  I  held  in  my  hand. 
Adelaide  made  my  heart  ache;  Von  Francius  made  tears 
stream  from  my  eyes.  I  reproached  myself  for  having 
doubted  him,  but  oh,  I  treasure-d  the  proof  that  he  was  true! 
It  was  the  one  tangible  link  between  me,  reality,  and  hard 
facts,  and  the  misty  yet  beloved  life  I  had  quitted.  My  heart 
was  full  to  overflowing;  I  must  tell  someone — I  must  speak 
to  someone. 

Once  again  I  tried  to  talk  to  Stella  about  Adelaide,  but  she 
gazed  at  me  in  that  straight,  strange  way,  and  said  coldly  that 
she  preferred  not  to  speak  of  "  that."  I  could  not  speak  to 
Miss  Hallam  about  it.  Alone  in  the  broad  meadows,  beside 
the  noiseless  river,  I  sometimes  whispered  to  myself  that  I 
was  not  forgotten,  and  tried  to  console  myself  with  the  feeling 
that  what  Von  Francius  promised  he  did — I  should  touch  his 
hand,  hear  his  voice  again — and  Adelaide's.  For  the  rest,  1 
had  to  lock  the  whole  affair — my  grief  and  my  love,  my  long- 
ing and  my  anxiety — fast  within  my  own  breast,  and  did  so. 

It  was  a  long  lesson — a  hard  one;  it  was  conned  with  bitter 
tears,  wept  long  and  alone  in  the  darkness;  it  was  a  sorrow 
which  lay  down  and  rose  up  with  me.  It  taught  (or  rather 
practiced  me  until  I  became  expert  in  them)  certain  things 
in  which  I  had  been  deficient;  reticence,  self-reliance,  a 
quicker  ability  to  decide  in  emergencies.  It  certainlv  made 
me  feel  old  and  sad,  and  Miss  Hallam  often  said  that  Stella 
and  I  were  "  as  quiet  as  nuns." 


294  THE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

Stella  had  the  power  wliich  I  so  ardently  coveted:  she  was 
a  first-rate  instrumentalist.  Tbe  only  topic  she  and  I  had  in 
common  was  the  music  I  had  heard  and  taken  part  in.  To 
anything  concerning  that  she  would  listen  for  hours. 

Meanwhile  the  war  rolled  on,  and  Paris  capitulated,  and 
peace  was  declared.  The  spring  passed  and  Germany  laughed 
in  glee,  and  bleeding  France  roused  herself  to  look  with  a 
haggard  eye  around  her;  what  she  saw,  we  all  know — desola- 
tion, and  mourning,  and  woe.  And  summer  glided  by,  and 
autumn  came,  and  I  did  not  write  either  to  Adelaide  or  Von 
Francius.  I  had  a  firm  faith  in  him — and  absolute  trust.  I 
felt  I  was  not  forgotten. 

In  less  than  a  year  after  my  return  to  England,  Miss  Hal- 
lam  died.  The  day  before  her  death  she  called  me  to  her, 
and  said  words  wliich  moved  me  very  much. 

"  May,  I  am  an  eccentric  old  woman,  and  lest  you  should 
he  in  any  doubt  upon  the  subject  of  my  feelings  toward  you, 
I  wish  to  tell  you  that  my  life  has  been  more  satisfactory  to 
me  ever  since  I  knew  you." 

"  That  is  much  more  praise  than  I  deserve.  Miss  Hallam." 
"  No,  it  isn't.     I  like  both  you  and  Stella.     Three  months 
ago  I  made  a  codicil  to  my  will  by  which  I  endeavored  to 
express  that  liking.     It  is  nothing  very  brilliant,  but  I  fancy 
it  will  suit  the  views  of  both  of  you." 

Utterly  astounded,  I  stammered  out  some  incoherent  words. 

"  There,  don't  thank  me,"  said  she.     "  If  I  were  not  sure 

that  I  shall  die  to-morrow — or  thereabouts,  I  should  put  my 

plan  into  execution  at  once,  but  I  shall  not  be  alive  at  the 

end  of  the  week." 

Her  words  proved  true.  Grim,  sardonic,  and  cynical  to 
the  last,  she  died  quietly,  gladly  closing  her  eyes  which  had 
so  long  been  sightless.  She  was  sixty-five  years  old,  and  had 
lived  alone  since  she  was  flve-and-twenty. 

The  codicil  to  her  will,  which  she  had  spoken  of  with  so 
much  composure,  left  three  hundred  pounds  to  Stella  and  me. 
She  wished  a  portion  of  it  to  be  devoted  to  our  instruction  in 
music,  vocal  and  instrumental,  at  any  German  conservatorium 

we  might  select.     She  preferred  that  of  L .     Until  we 

M^ere  of  age,  our  parents  or  guardians  saw  to  the  dispensing  of 
the  money,  after  that  it  was  our  own — half  belonging  to  each 
of  us;  we  might  either  unite  our  funds  or  use  them  separately 
as  we  choose. 

It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  we  both  chose  that  course 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLm.  295 

-svhicli  she  indicated.     Stella's  joy  was  deep  and  intense — 
mine  had  an  anavoidable  sorrov/  mingled  with  it.     At  the  end 

of  September,  18 ,  we  departed  for  Germany,  and  before 

going  to  L it  was  agreed  that  we  should  pay  a  visit  at 

Elberthal,  to  my  friend  Dr.  Mittendorf . 

It  was  a  gusty  September  night,  with  wind  dashing  angrily 
about  and  showers  of  rain  flying  before  the  gale,  on  which  I 
once  again  set  foot  in  Elberthal — the  place  I  had  thought 
never  more  to  sse. 


book:  vt. 

BOTEENFEW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

•*  Freude  trinken  alle  Wesen 
An  deu  Briisten  der  Natur; 
Alle  Guten,  alie  Bosen 
Folgen  ihrer  Roseaspur." 

I  PELT  a  deep  rapture  in  being  once  more  in  that  land  irhere 
Biy  love,  if  he  did  not  live,  slept.  But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on 
that  rapture,  much  as  it  influenced  me.  It  waxes  tedious 
when  put  into  words — loses  color  and  flavor,  like  a  pressed 
flower. 

I  was  at  first  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that  Stella  and  I 
were  only  to  have  a  few  days  at  Elberthal.  Dr.  Mittendorf 
no  longer  lived  there;  but  only  had  his  official  residence  in 
the  town,  going  every  week-end  to  his  country  house,  or 
"  Schloss,"  as  he  ambitiously  called  it,  at  Lahnburg,  a  four- 
hours'  railway  journey  from  Elberthal. 

Frau  Mittendorf,  who  had  been  at  Elberthal  on  a  visit,  was 
to  take  Stella  and  me  with  her  to  Lahnburg  on  the  Tuesday 
morning  after  our  arrival,  which  was  on  Friday  evening. 

The  good  doctor's  schloss,  an  erection  built  like  the  con- 
trivances of  the  White  Knight  in  "  Through  the  Looking- 
glass,"  on  "  a  plan  of  his  own  invention,"  had  been  his  pet 
hobby  for  years,  and  now  that  it  was  finished,  he  invited  every 
invitable  person  to  come  and  stay  at  it. 

It  was  not  likely  that  he  would  excuse  a  person  for  whom 
he  had  so  much  regard  as  he  professed  for  me  from  the  honor, 
and  I  was  fain  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I  would  much  rather 
have  remained  in  Elberthal,  and  make  up  my  mind  to  endure 
as  well  as  I  could  the  prospect  of  being  buried  in  the  country 
with  Frau  Mittendorf  and  her  children. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  An  equinoctial  gale  was  raging, 
or  rath^  had  been  raging  all  day.    It  had  rained  incessantly^ 

298 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  297 

and  the  wind  had  howleu.  The  skies  were  cloud-laden,  the 
wind  was  furious.  The  Ehine  was  so  swollen  that  the  streets 
in  the  lower  pari;  of  the  town  sloping  to  the  river  were  under 
water,  and  the  people  going  ahout  in  boats. 

But  I  was  tired  of  the  house;  the  heated  rooms  stifled  me, 
I  was  weary  of  Frau  Mittendorf's  society,  and  thoroughly  dis- 
satisfied  with  my  own. 

About  five  in  the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  I  perceived  a  strip  of  pale,  watery  blue  througli  a 
rift  in  the  storm-laden  clouds,  and  I  chose  to  see  that,  and  that 
only,  ignoring  the  wind-lashed  trees  of  the  ailee;  the  leaves, 
wet,  and  sodden  and  sere,  hurrying  panic-stricken  before  the 
gale,  ignoring,  too,  the  low  wail  promising  a  coming  hurri- 
cane, which  sighed  and  soughed  beneath  the  wind's  shrill 
scream. 

There  was  a  temporary  calm,  and  I  bethought  myself  that 
I  would  go  to  church — not  to  the  Protestant  church  attended 
by  the  English  clique — heaven  forbid!  but  to  my  favorite 
haunt,  the  Jesuiten  Kirche. 

It  was  jutot  the  hour  at  which  the  service  would  be  going  on. 
I  asked  Stella  in  a  low  voice  if  she  would  not  like  to  come; 
she  declined  with  a  look  of  pity  at  me,  so,  notifying  my  inten- 
tion to  Frau  Mittendorf,  and  mildly  but  firmly  leaving  the 
room  before  she  could  utter  any  remonstrance,  I  rushed  up- 
stairs, clothed  myself  in  my  winter  mantle,  threw  a  shawl  over 
my  arm,  and  set  out. 

The  air  was  raw  but  fresh,  life-giving,  and  invigorating. 
The  smell  of  the  stove,  which  clung  to  me  still,  was  quickly 
dissipated  by  it.  I  wrapped  my  shawl  around  me,  turned 
down  a  side  street,  and  was  soon  in  the  heart  of  the  old  part 
of  the  town,  where  all  Roman  Catholic  churches  were,  the 
quarter  l}ang  near  the  river  and  wharves  and  bridge  of  boats. 

I  liked  to  go  to  the  Jesuiten  Kirche,  and  placing  myself  in 
the  backgi'ound,  kneel  as  others  knelt,  and,  without  taking 
part  in  the  service,  think  my  own  thoughts  and  pray  my  own 
prayers. 

Here  none  of  the  sheep  looked  wolfish  at  you  unless  you 
kept  to  a  particular  pen,  for  the  privilege  of  sitting  in  which 
you  paid  so  many  marks  per  quartal  to  a  respectable  func- 
tionary who  came  to  collect  them.  Here  the  men  came  and 
knelt  down,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  women  seemed  really  to  bo 
praying,  and  awai*e  of  what  they  were  praying  for,  not  looking 
over  their  prayer-books  at  each  other's  clothes. 


898  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm, 

I  entered  the  chiircli.  Within  the  building  it  was  already 
almost  dark.  A  reddish  light  burned  in  a  great  glittering 
censer,  which  swung  gently  to  and  fro  in  the  chancel. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  church,  kneeling  in  groups 
and  rows,  and  all  occupied  with  their  prayers.  I,  too,  knelt 
down,  and  presently,  as  the  rest  sat  up,  I  sat  up  too.  A  sad- 
looking  monk  had  ascended  the  pulpit,  ?  \d  was  beginning  to 
preach.  His  face  was  thin,  hollow,  and  ascetic-looking;  his 
eyes  blazed  bright  from  deep,  sunken  sockets.  His  cowl  came 
almost  up  to  his  ears.  I  could  dimly  see  the  white  cord  round 
his  waist  as  he  began  to  preach,  at  first  in  a  low  and  feeble 
voice,  which  gradually  waxed  into  power. 

He  was  in  earnesi>-— whether  right  or  wrong,  he  was  in  ear- 
nest. I  listened  with  the  others  to  what  he  said.  He 
preached  the  beauties  of  renunciation,  and  during  his  dis- 
course quoted  the  very  words  which  had  so  often  haunted 
me — Enthehren  sollst  du!  sollst  entbehren ! 

His  earnestness  moved  me  deeply.  His  voice  was  musical, 
sweet.  His  accent  made  the  German  burr  soft;  he  was  half 
Italian.  I  had  been  at  the  instrumental  concert  the  previous 
night,  for  old  association's  sake,  and  they  had  played  the  two 
movements  of  Schubert's  unfinished  symphony — the  B  minor. 
The  refrain  in  the  last  movement  haunted  me — a  refrain  of 
seven  cadences,  which  rises  softly  and  falls,  dies  away,  is 
carried  softly  from  one  instrument  to  another,  wanders  afar,  » 

returns  again,  sinks  lower  and  lower,  deeper  and  deeper,  till  at         1 
last  the  'celli  (if  I  mistake  not)  take  it  up  for  the  last  time, 
and  the  melody  dies  a  beautiful  death,  leaving  you  undecided 
whether   to    weep    or   smile,   but   penetrated   through   and 
through  with  its  dreamy  loveliness. 

This  exquisite  refrain  lingered  in  my  memory  and  echoed 
in  my  mind,  like  a  voice  from  some  heavenly  height,  telling 
me  to  rest  and  be  at  peace,  in  time  to  the  swinging  of  the 
censer,  in  harmony  with  the  musical  southern  voice  of  that 
unknown  Brother  Somebody. 

By  degrees  I  began  to  think  that  the  censer  did  not  sway  so 
regularly,  so  like  a  measured  pendulum  as  it  had  done,  but 
was  moving  somewhat  erratically,  and  borne  upon  the  gale 
came  a  low,  ominous  murmur,  which  first  mingled  itself  with 
the  voice  of  the  preacher,  and  then  threatened  to  dominate  it. 
Still  the  refrain  of  the  symphony  rang  in  my  ears,  and  I  was 
soothed  to  rest  by  the  inimitable  nepenthe  of  music. 

But  the  murmur  of  which  I  had  so  long  been,  as  it  wer^ 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  299 

half-conscious,  swelled  and  drove  other  sounds  and  the 
thoughts  of  them  from  my  mind.  It  grew  to  a  deep,  hollow 
roar — a  very  hunicane  of  a  roar.  The  preacher's  voice 
ceased,  drowned. 

I  think  none  of  us  were  at  first  certain  about  what  was  hap- 
pening; we  only  felt  that  something  tremendous  was  going 
on.  Then,  with  one  mighty  bang  and  blow  of  the  tempest, 
the  door  by  which  I  had  entered  the  church  was  blown  bodily 
in,  and  fell  crashing  upon  the  floor;  and  after  the  hurricane 
came  rushing  through  the  church  with  the  howl  of  a  tri- 
umphant demon,  and  hurried  round  the  building,  extinguish- 
ing every  light,  and  turning  a  temple  of  God  into  Hades. 

Sounds  there  were  as  of  things  flapping  from  the  walls,  as 
of  wood  falling;  but  all  was  in  the  pitchiest  darkness — a  very 
"  darkness  which  might  be  felt."  Amid  the  roar  of  the  wind 
came  disjointed,  broken  exclamations  of  terrified  women  and 
angry,  impatient  men,  "J.c/i  Gott!''  "  Du  meine  Zeit!" 
"  Herr  du  meine  Giite!"  "Oh,  je!"  etc.,  rang  all  round, 
and  hurrying  people  rushed  past  me,  making  confusion  worse 
confounded  as  they  scrambled  past  to  try  to  get  out. 

I  stood  still,  not  from  any  bravery  or  presence  of  mind,  but 
from  utter  annihilation  of  both  qualities  in  the  shock  and 
surprise  of  it  all.  At  last  I  began  trying  to  grope  my  way 
toward  the  door.  I  found  it.  Some  people — I  heard  and 
felt  rather  than  saw — were  standing  about  the  batter ed-in 
door,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  water  hurrying  past  the 
doorway.     The  Ehine  was  rushing  down  the  street. 

"  We  must  go  to  the  other  door — the  west  door,"  said  some- 
one among  the  people;  and  as  the  group  moved  I  moved  too, 
beginning  to  wish  myself  well  out  of  it. 

We  reached  the  west  door;  it  led  into  a  small  lane  or  Gasse, 
regarding  the  geography  of  which  I  was  quite  at  sea,  for  I 
had  only  been  in  it  once  before.  I  stepped  from  the  street 
into  the  lane,  which  was  in  the  very  blackness  of  darkness, 
and  seemed  to  be  filled  with  wind  and  a  hurricane  wliich  one 
could  almost  distinguish  and  grasp. 

The  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  surging  of  water  were  all 
around,  and  were  deafening.  I  followed,  as  I  thought,  some 
voices  which  I  heai'd,  but  scarcely  knew  where  I  was  going,  as 
the  wind  seemed  to  be  blowing  all  ways  at  once,  and  there 
came  to  me  an  echo  here  and  an  echo  there,  misleading  rather 
than  guiding.  In  a  few  moments  I  felt  my  foot  upon  wood, 
and  there  was  a  loud  creaking  and  rattling,  as  of  chains;  a 


800  THE  FIRST  YIOLIN. 

groaning,  splitting,  and  great  uproar  going  on,  as  well  as  a 
motion  as  if  I  were  on  board  a  ship. 

After  making  a  few  steps  I  paused.  It  was  utterly  impos- 
sible that  I  could  have  got  upon  a  boat — wildly  impossible. 
I  stood  still,  then  went  on  a  few  steps.  Still  the  same  extraor- 
dinary sounds — still  such  a  creaking  and  groaning — still  the 
rush,  rush,  and  swish,  swish  of  water;  but  not  a  human  voice 
any  more,  not  a  light  to  be  seen,  not  a  sigrn! 

With  my  hat  long  since  stripped  from  my  head  and 
launched  into  darkness  and  space,  my  hair  lashed  about  me  in 
all  directions,  my  petticoats  twisted  round  me  like  ropes,  I  was 
utterly  and  completely  bewildered  by  the  thunder  and  roar  of 
all  around.  I  no  longer  knew  which  way  I  had  come  nor 
where  to  turn.  I  could  not  imagine  where  I  was,  and  my 
only  chance  seemed  to  be  to  hold  fast  and  firm  to  the  railing 
against  which  the  wind  had  unceremoniously  banged  me. 

The  creaking  grew  louder — grew  into  a  crash;  there  was  a 
splitting  of  wood,  a  snapping  of  chains,  a  kind  of  whirl,  and 
then  I  felt  the  wind  blow  upon  me,  first  upon  this  side,  then 
from  that,  and  became  conscious  that  the  structure  upon 
which  I  stood  was  moving — floating  smoothly  and  rapidly 
upon  water.  In  an  instant  (when  it  was  too  late)  it  all 
flashed  upon  my  mind.  I  had  wandered  upon  the  Schiff- 
briicke,  or  bridge  of  boats  which  crossed  the  Rhine  from  the 
foot  of  the  market-place,  and  this  same  bridge  had  been 
broken  by  the  strength  of  the  water  and  wind,  and  upon  a 
portion  of  it  I  was  now  floating  down  the  river. 

With  my  usual  wisdom,  and  "  the  shrewd  application  of  a 
wide  experience  so  peculiar  to  yourself,"  as  someone  has  since 
insulted  me  by  saying,  I  instantly  gave  myself  up  as  lost. 
The  bridge  would  run  into  some  other  bridge,  or  dash  into  a 
steamer,  or  do  something  horrible,  and  I  should  be  killed,  and 
none  would  know  of  my  fate;  or  it  would  all  break  into  little 
pieces,  and  I  should  have  to  cling  to  one  of  them,  and  should 
inevitably  be  drowned. 

In  any  case,  my  destruction  was  only  a  matter  of  time. 
How  I  loved  my  life  then!  How  sweet,  and  warm,  and  full, 
and  fresh  it  seemed!  How  cold  the  river,  and  how  undesira- 
ble a  speedy  release  from  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this 
wicked  world! 

The  wind  was  still  howling  horribly— chanting  my  funeral 
dirge.  Like  grim  death,  I  held  on  to  my  raihng,  and  longed, 
with  a  desperate  longing,  for  one  glimpse  of  light. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  301 

I  had  believed  myself  alone  upon  my  impromptu  raft — or 
rather,  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  there  might  he  another 
than  myself  upon  it;  but  at  this  instant,  in  a  momentary  lull 
of  the  wind,  almost  by  my  side  I  heard  a  sound  that  I  knew 
well,  and  had  cause  to  remember — the  tune  of  the  wild  march 
from  "  Lenore,"  set  to  the  same  words,  sung  by  the  same  voice 
as  of  yore. 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  leaped  on  again. 
Then  a  faint,  sickly  kind  of  dread  overcame  me.  I  thought 
I  was  going  out  of  my  mind — was  wandering  in  some  delu- 
sion, which  took  the  form  of  the  dearest  voice,  and  sounded 
with  its  sound  in  my  ears. 

But  no!  The  melody  did  not  cease.  As  the  beating  of  my 
heart  settled  somewhat  down,  I  still  heard  it — not  loud,  but 
distinct.  Then  the  tune  ceased.  The  voice — all!  there  was 
no  mistaking  that,  and  I  trembled  with  the  joy  that  thrilled 
me  as  I  heard  it — conned  over  the  words  as  if  struck  with 
their  weird  appropriateness  to  the  scene,  which  was  certainly 
marked: 

'•  Und  das  Gesindel,  husch,  husch,  husch 
Kam  hinteu  nachgeprasselt — 
Wie  Wirbelwind  am  Haselbusch 
Durch  dllrre  Blatter  rasselt." 


And  Wh-hdwind — the  whirlwind — played  a  wild  accompani- 
ment to  the  words. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  a  long  time  passed,  during  which  I 
could  not  speak,  but  could  only  stand  with  my  hands  clasped 
over  my  heart,  trying  to  steady  its  tumultuous  beating.  I  had 
not  been  wrong,  thank  the  good  God  above!  I  had  not  been 
vrrong  when  my  heart  sung  for  joy  at  being  once  more  in  this 
3and.     He  was  here — he  was  living — he  was  safe! 

Here  were  all  my  worst  fears  soothed — my  intensest  long- 
ings answered  without  my  having  spoken.  It  was  now  first 
that  I  really  knew  how  much  I  loved  him — so  much  that  I  felt 
almost  afraid  of  the  strength  of  the  passion.  I  knew  not  till 
now  how  it  had  grown — how  fast  and  all-dominating  it  had 
become. 

A  sob  broke  from  my  lips,  and  his  voice  was  silenced. 

"Herr  Courvoisier!  "  I  stammered. 

"Who  spoke?  "  he  asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

"  It  is  you!  "  I  murmured. 

"  May!  "  he  uttered,  and  paused  abruptly. 


802  TEE  FIRST  YIOLIK 

A  hand  touched  mine — warm,  firm,  strong — ^his  very 
hand.  In  its  lightest  touch  there  seemed  safety,  shelter, 
comfort. 

"  Oh,  how  giad  I  am!     how  glad  I  am!  "  I  sohhed. 

He  murmured  "  Sonderhar! "  as  if  arguing  with  himself, 
and  I  held  his  hand  fast. 

"  Don't  leave  me!     Stay  here!  "  I  implored. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  not  much  choice  ahout  that  for  either 
of  us,"  said  he,  and  he  laughed. 

I  did  not  rememher  to  wonder  how  he  came  there;  I  only 
knew  that  he  was  there.  That  tempest,  which  will  not  soon 
he  forgotten  in  Elberthal,  subsided  almost  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
arisen.  The  winds  lulled  as  if  a  wizard  had  bidden  them  be 
still.  The  gale  hurried  on  to  devastate  fresh  fields  and 
pastures  new.  There  was  a  sudden  reaction  of  stillness,  and  I 
began  to  see  in  the  darkness  the  outlines  of  a  figure  beside  me. 
I  looked  up.  There  was  no  longer  that  hideous,  driving  black 
mist,  like  chaos  embodied,  between  me  and  heaven.  The  sky, 
though  dark,  was  clear;  some  stars  were  gleaming  coldly 
down  upon  the  havoc  which  had  taken  place  since  they  last 
viewed  the  scene. 

Seeing  the  heavens  so  calm  and  serene,  a  sudden  feeling  of 
shjTiess  and  terror  overtook  me.  I  tried  to  withdraw  my 
hand  from  that  of  my  companion,  and  to  remove  myself  a 
little  from  him.     He  held  my  hand  fast. 

"  You  are  exhausted  with  standing?  "  said  he.  "  Sit  down 
upon  this  ledge." 

"  If  you  will,  too." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  I  think  our  voyage  will  be  a  long  one, 
and " 

"  Speak  German,"  said  I.  "  Let  me  hear  you  speaking  it 
again." 

"  And  I  have  no  mind  to  stand  all  the  time,"  he  canciuded 
in  his  own  tongue. 

"  Is  there  no  one  else  here  but  ourselves?  " 

"  No  one." 

I  had  seated  myself  and  he  placed  himself  beside  me.  I 
was  in  no  laughing  mood  or  I  might  have  found  something 
ludicrous  in  our  situation. 

"I  wonder  where  we  are  now,"  I  half  whispered,  as  the 
bridge  was  still  hurried  ceaselessly  down  the  dark  and  rush- 
ing river.  I  dared  not  allude  to  an5rthi"ng  else.  I  felt  my 
keart  was  too  full — I  felt  too,  too  utterly  uncertain  of  him. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  303 

There  was  sadness  in  his  voice.  I,  who  knew  its  every 
cadence,  could  hear  that. 

"  I  think  we  are  about  passing  Kaiserswerth,"  said  he.  "  I 
wonder  where  we  shall  land  at  last." 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  go  very  far?  " 

"  Perhaps  we  may.  It  is  on  record  that  the  Elberthal  boat 
bridge — part  of  it,  I  mean — once  turned  up  at  Eotterdam. 
It  may  happen  again,  warum  nicJit  ?  " 

"  How  long  does  that  take?  " 

"  Twelve  or  fourteen  hours,  I  dare  say." 

I  was  silent. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said  in  the  gentlest  of  voices,  as 
he  happed  my  shawl  more  closely  around  me.  "  And  you  are 
cold  too — sliivering.     My  coat  must  do  duty  again." 

"  No,  no!  "  cried  I.     "  Keep  it!     I  won't  have  it." 

"  Yes  you  will,  because  you  can't  help  it  if  I  make  you,"  he 
answered  as  he  wrapped  it  round  me. 

"  Well,  please  take  part  of  it.  At  least  wrap  half  of  it 
round  you,"  I  implored,  "  or  I  shall  be  miserable." 

"Pray  don't!  No,  keep  it!  It  is  not  like  charity — it  has 
not  room  for  many  sins  at  once." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  or  me?  "  I  could  not  help  asking. 

*'  Are  we  not  all  sinners  ?  " 

I  knew  it  would  be  futile  to  resist,  but  I  was  not  happy 
in  the  new  arrangement,  and  I  touched  his  coat-sleeve 
timidly. 

"  You  have  quite  a  thin  coat,"  I  remonstrated,  "  and  I  have 
a  winter  dress,  a  thick  jacket,  and  a  shawl." 

"  And  my  coat,  und  dock  hist  du — oh,  pardon!  and  you  are 
shivering  in  spite  of  it,"  said  he  conclusively. 

"  It  is  an  awful  storm,  is  it  not?  "  I  suggested  next. 

"  Was  an  awful  storm,  nicht  walir?  Yes.  And  how  very 
strange  that  you  and  I,  of  all  people,  should  have  met  here,  of 
all  places.     How  did  you  get  here?  " 

"  I  had  been  to  church." 

"So!     I  had  not." 

"  How  did  you  come  here?  "  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"Yes — you  may  well  ask;  but  first — you  have  been  in 
England,  have  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  and  am  going  back  again." 

"  Well — I  came  here  yesterday  from  Berlin.  When  the 
war  was  over " 

"  Ah,  you  were  in  the  war?  "  I  gasped. 


304  ,  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

"  NatiirUch,  mein  Frdulein.  Where  else  should  I  have 
been?" 

"  And  you  fought?  " 

"  Also  natiirlich." 

"  Where  did  you  fight?    At  Sedan?  " 

«  At  Sedan— yes." 

"  Oh,  my  God!  "  I  whispered  to  myself,  "And  were  you 
wounded?  "  I  added  aloud. 

"  A  mere  trifle.  Friedhelm  and  I  had  the  luck  to  march 
side  by  side.  I  learned  to  know  in  spirit  and  in  letter  the 
meaning  of  Ich  haW  einen  guten  Kamerad.'" 

"You  were  wounded!"  I  repeated,  unheeding  all  that 
discursiveness.  "Where?  How?  Were  you  in  the  hospital?" 

"  Yes.  Oh,  it  is  nothing.  Since  then  I  have  been  learn- 
ing my  true  place  in  the  world,  for  you  see,  unluckily  I  was 
not  killed." 

"  Thank  God!  Thank  God!  How  I  have  wondered! 
How  I  have  thought — well,  how  did  you  come  here?" 

"  I  coveted  a  place  in  one  of  those  graves,  and  couldn't 
have  it,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  It  was  a  little  thing  to  be  denied, 
but  fallen  men  must  do  without  much.  I  saw  boys  falling 
around  me,  whose  mothers  and  sisters  are  mourning  for  them 
yet." 

"  Oh,  don't! " 

"  Well — Friedel  and  I  are  working  in  Berlin.  We  shall 
not  stay  there  long;  we  are  wanderers  now!  There  is  no 
room  for  us.  I  have  a  short  holiday,  and  I  came  to  spend  it 
at  Elberthal.  This  evening  I  set  out,  intending  to  hear 
the  opera — '  Der  Fliegende  Hollander ' — very  appropriate, 
wasn't  it?" 

"  Very! " 

"  But  the  storm  burst  over  the  theater  just  as  the  perform- 
ance was  about  to  begin,  and  removed  part  of  the  roof,  upon 
which  one  of  the  company  came  before  the  curtain  and  dis- 
missed us  with  his  blessing  and  the  announcement  that  no 
play  would  be  played  to-night.  Thus  I  was  deprived  of  the 
ungodly  pleasure  of  watching  my  old  companions  wrestle 
with  Wagner's  stormy  music  while  I  looked  on  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  But  when  you  came  out  of  the  theater?  " 

"  When  I  came  out  of  the  theater  the  storm  was  so  mag- 
nificent, and  was  telling  me  so  much  that  I  resolved  to  come 
down  to  its  center-point  and  see  Vater  Rhein  in  one  of  his 


THE  FIBST  VlOim.  305 

grandest  furies.  I  strayed  upon  the  bridge  of  boats;  f*-  rgot 
where  I  was,  listened  only  to  the  storm:  ere  I  knew  what  was 
happening  I  was  adrift  and  the  tempest  howling  round  me — 
and  you,  fresh  from  your  devotions  to  lull  it." 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  long  in  Elberthal?  " 

"  It  seems  I  may  not.  I  am  driven  away  by  storms  and 
tempests." 

"  And  me  with  you,"  thought  I.  "  Perhaps  there  is  some 
meaning  in  this.  Perhaps  fate  means  us  to  breast  other 
storms  together.  If  so,  I  am  ready — anything — so  it  be 
with  you." 

"  There's  the  moon,"  said  he;  "  how  brilliant,  is  she  not?  " 

I  looked  up  into  the  sky  wherein  she  had  indeed  appeared 
"  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale,"  shining  cold  and  drear^ 
but  very  clearly  upon  the  swollen  waters,  showing  us  dim 
outlines  of  half-submerged  trees,  cottages,  and  hedges — show- 
ing us  that  we  were  in  midstream,  and  that  other  pieces  of 
wreck  were  floating  down  the  river  with  us,  hurrying  rapidly 
with  the  current — showing  me,  too,  in  a  ghostly  whiteness, 
the  face  of  my  companion  turned  toward  me,  and  his  elbow 
rested  on  his  knee  and  his  chin  in  his  hand,  and  his  loose 
dark  hair  was  blown  back  from  his  broad  forehead,  his 
strange,  deep  eyes  were  resting  upon  my  face,  calmly,  openly. 

Under  that  gaze  my  heart  fell.  In  former  days  there  had 
been  in  his  face  something  not  unakin  to  this  stormy  free 
night;  but  now  it  was  changed — how  changed! 

A  year  had  wrought  a  terrible  alteration.  I  knew  not  his 
past;  but  I  did  know  that  he  had  long  been  struggling,  and 
a  dread  fear  seized  me  that  the  struggle  was  growing  too  hard 
for  him — his  spirit  was  breaking.  It  was  not  only  that  the 
shadows  were  broader,  deeper,  more  permanently  sealed — 
there  was  a  down  look — a  hardness  and  bitterness  which  in- 
spired me  both  with  pity  and  fear. 

"  Your  fate  is  a  perverse  one,"  he  remarked,  as  I  did  not 
speak. 

"So!     Why?" 

"  It  throws  you  so  provokingly  into  society  which  must 
be  so  unpleasant  to  you." 

"  Whose  society?  " 

"  Mine,  naturally." 

"  You  are  much  mistaken,"  said  I  composedly. 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  For  your  sake,  I  wish  it  had 
been  anyone  but  myself  who  had  been  thus  thrown  together 


806  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

with  you.  I  promise  you  faithfully  that  ls  soon  as  ever  we 
can  land  I  will  only  wait  to  see  you  safely  into  a  train  and 
then  I  will  leave  you  and " 

He  was  suddenly  silenced.  I  had  composed  my  face  to 
an  expression  of  indifference  as  stony  as  I  knew  how  to  as- 
sume, and  with  my  hands  folded  in  my  lap,  had  steeled 
myself  to  look  into  his  face  and  listen  to  him. 

I  could  find  nothing  but  a  kind  of  careless  mockery  in  his 
face — a  hard  half  smile  upon  his  lips  as  he  went  on  saying 
the  hard  things  which  cut  home  and  left  me  quivering,  and 
which  he  yet  uttered  as  if  they  had  been  the  most  harmless 
pleasantries  or  the  merest  whipped-cream  compliments. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  wind,  rising  again  in  a  brief 
spasm,  blew  a  tress  of  my  loosened  hair  across  his  face.  How 
it  changed!  flushed  crimson.  His  lips  parted — a  strange, 
sudden  hght  came  into  liis  eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon! "  said  I  hastily,  startled  from  my 
assumed  composure,  as  I  raised  my  hand  to  push  my  hair 
back.  But  he  had  gathered  the  tress  together — his  hand  lin- 
gered for  one  moment — a  scarcely  perceptible  moment — upon 
it,  then  he  laid  it  gently  down  upon  my  shoulder. 

"  Then  I  will  leave  you,"  he  went  on,  resuming  the  old 
manner,  but  with  evident  effort,  "  and  not  interfere  with  you 
any  more." 

What  was  I  to  think?  Wliat  to  believe?  I  thought  to 
myself  that,  had  he  been  my  lover  and  I  had  intercepted  such 
a  glance  of  his  to  another  woman,  my  peace  of  mind  had  been 
gone  for  evermore.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  every  cool  word 
he  said  gave  the  lie  to  his  looks — or  did  his  looks  give  the  lie 
to  his  words?  Oh,  that  I  could  solve  the  problem  once  for 
all,  and  have  done  with  it  forever! 

"And  you,  Miss  Wedderbum — have  you  deserted  Ger- 
many? " 

"  I  have  been  obliged  to  live  in  England,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean — I  am  living  in  Germany  at  present." 

"  And  art — die  Kunst — that  is  cruel!  " 

"  You  are  amusing  yourself  at  my  expense,  as  you  have 
always  delighted  in  doing,"  said  I  sharply,  cut  to  the  quick. 

'  Aber,  Frdulein  May!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"From  the  very  first,"  I  repeated,  the  pain  I  felt  giving 
a  keenness  to  my  reproaches.  "  Did  you  not  deceive  me  and 
draw  me  out  for  your  amusement  that  day  we  met  at  Koln? 
You  found  out  then,  I  suppose,  what  a  stupid,  silly  creature 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  307 

f  was,  and  you  have  repeated  the  process  now  and  then,  since 
— much  to  your  own  edification  and  that  of  Heir  Helfen, 
I  do  not  doubt.  Whether  it  was  just,  or  honorable,  or  kind 
is  a  secondary  consideration.  Stupid  people  are  only  in- 
vented for  the  amusement  of  those  who  are  not  stupid." 

"  How  dare  you,  how  dare  you  talk  in  that  manner?  "  said 
he  emphatically,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and 
somehow  compelling  my  gaze  to  meet  his.  "  But  I  know 
why — I  read  the  answer  in  those  eyes  which  dare  everything, 
and  yet " 

"Not  quite  everything,"  thought  I  uncomfortably,  as  the 
said  eyes  sunk  beneath  his  look. 

"  Fraulein  May,  will  you  have  the  patience  to  listen  while 
I  tell  you  a  little  story?  " 

"  Oh,  yes! "  I  responded  readily,  as  I  hailed  the  prospect 
of  learning  something  more  about  him. 

"  It  is  now  nearly  five  years  since  I  first  came  to  Elberthal. 
I  had  never  been  in  the  town  before.  I  came  wdth  my  boy 
— may  God  bless  him  and  keep  him! — who  was  then  two  years 
old,  and  whose  mother  was  dead — for  my  wife  died  early." 

A  pause,  during  which  I  did  not  speak.  It  was  sometliing 
so  wonderful  to  me  that  he  should  speak  to  me  of  his  wife. 

"  She  was  young — and  very  beautiful,"  said  he.  "  You 
will  forgive  my  introducing  the  subject?  " 

"  Oh,  Herr  Courvoisier!  " 

"And  I  had  wronged  her.  I  came  to  Friedhelm  Helfen, 
or  rather  was  sent  to  him,  and,  as  it  happened,  found  such 
a  friend  as  is  not  granted  to  one  man  in  a  thousand.  When 
I  came  here  I  was  smarting  under  various  griefs;  about  the 
worst  was  that  I  had  recklessly  destroyed  my  own  prospects. 
I  had  a  good  career — a  fair  future  open  to  me.  I  had  cut 
short  that  career,  annihilated  that  future,  or  any  future  worth 
speaking  of,  by — well,  something  had  happened  which  di- 
vided me  utterly  and  uncompromisingly  and  forever  from  the 
friends,  and  the  sphere,  and  the  respect  and  affection  of  those 
who  had  been  parents  and  brother  and  sister  to  me.  Then 
I  knew  that  their  good  opinion,  their  love,  was  my  law  and 
my  highest  desire.  And  it  was  not  their  fault — it  was  mine 
— my  very  own. 

"  The  more  I  look  back  upon  it  all,  the  more  I  see  that 
I  have  myself  to  thank  for  it.  But  that  reflection,  as  you 
may  suppose,  does  not  add  to  the  dehghts  of  a  man's  position 
when  he  is  humbled  to  the  dust  as  I  was  then.    Biting  the 


808  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

dust — you  have  that  phrase  in  English.  Well,  I  have  been 
biting  the  dust — ^yes,  eating  it,  living  upon  it,  and  deservedly 
so,  for  five  years;  but  nothing  ever  can,  nothing  ever  will, 
make  it  taste  anything  but  dry,  bitter,  nauseating  to  the  last 
degree." 

"  Go  on!  "  said  I  breathlessly. 

"  How  land  you  are  to  listen  to  the  dull  tale!  Well,  I  had 
my  boy  Sigmund,  and  there  were  times  when  the  mere  fact 
that  he  was  mine  made  me  forget  everything  else,  and  thank 
my  fate  for  the  simple  fact  that  I  had  lived  and  was  his 
father.  His  father — he  was  a  part  of  myself,  he  could  divine 
my  every  thought.  But  at  other  times,  generally,  indeed,  I 
was  sick  of  life — that  life.  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  one  of 
those  high-flown  idiots  who  would  make  it  out  that  no  life 
is  worth  living;  I  knew  and  felt  to  my  soul  that  the  life  from 
which  I  had  locked  myself  out,  and  then  dropped  the  key  as 
it  were  here  in  midstream,  was  a  glorious  life,  worth  living 
ten  times  over. 

"  There  was  the  sting  of  it.  For  three  years  I  lived  thus, 
and  learned  a  great  deal,  learned  what  men  in  that  position 
are — learned  to  respect,  admire,  and  love  some  of  them — 
learned  to  understand  that  man — der  Mensch — is  the  same, 
and  equally  to  be  honored  everywhere.  I  also  tried  to 
grow  accustomed  to  the  thought,  which  grew  every  day  more 
certain  to  me,  that  I  must  live  on  so  for  the  future — to 
plan  my  life,  and  shape  out  a  certain  kind  of  repentance  for 
sins  past.  I  decided  that  the  only  form  my  atonement  could 
iake  was  that  of  self-effacement " 

"  That  is  why  you  never  would  take  the  lead  in  anything?  '* 

"  Exactly.  I  am  naturally  fond  of  leading.  I  love  beyond 
everything  to  lead  those  who  I  know  like  me,  and  like  follow- 
ing me.  When  I  was  haupt — I  mean,  I  knew  that  all  that 
bygone  mischief  had  arisen  from  doing  what  I  liked,  so  I 
dropped  doing  what  I  liked  and  began  to  do  what  I  disliked. 
By  the  time  I  had  begun  to  get  a  little  into  training  three, 
years  had  passed — these  things  are  not  accomplished  in  a  day, 
and  the  effects  of  twenty-seven  years  of  selfishness  are  not 
killed  soon.  I  was  killing  them,  and  becoming  a  machine  in 
the  process. 

"  One  year  the  Lower  Rhenish  Musik-fest  was  to  be  held 
at  Koln.  Long  before  it  came  off  the  Cologne  orchestra  had 
sent  to  us  for  contingents,  and  we  had  begun  to  attend  some 
proben  regularly  once  or  twice  a  week. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  309 

"One  day  Friedhelm  and  I  had  been  at  a  probe.  The 
*  Tower  of  Babel '  and  the  '  Lenore '  Symphony  were  among 
the  things  we  had  practiced.  Both  of  them,  the  '  Lenore ' 
particularly,  had  got  into  my  head.  I  broke  loose  for  one 
day  from  routine,  from  drudgery  and  harness.  It  was  a  mis- 
take. Friedhelm  went  off,  shrugging  his  dear  old  shoulders, 
and  I  at  last  turned  up,  mooning  at  the  Kolner  Bahnhof. 
Well — you  know  the  rest.  Nay,  do  not  turn  so  angrily  away. 
Try  to  forgive  a  fallen  man  one  little  indiscretion.  When 
I  saw  you  I  cannot  tell  what  feeling  stole,  warm  and  invigorat- 
ing, into  my  heart;  it  was  something  quite  new — something 
I  had  never  felt  before:  it  was  so  sweet  that  I  could  not  part 
with  it.  Friiulein  May,  I  have  lived  that  afternoon  over 
again  many  and  many  a  time.  Have  you  ever  given  a  thought 
to  it?  " 

*'  Yes,  I  have,"  said  I  dryly. 

"  My  conduct  after  that  rose  half  from  pride — wounded 
pride,  I  mean,  for  when  you  cut  me,  it  did  cut  me — I  own  it. 
Partly  it  arose  from  a  worthier  feeling — the  feeling  that  I 
could  not  see  very  much  of  you  or  learn  to  know  you  at  all 
well  without  falling  very  deeply  in  love  with  you.  You  hide 
your  face — you  are  angry  at  that " 

"  Stop!  Did  you  never  throughout  all  this  give  a  thought 
to  the  possibility  that  I  might  fall  in  love  with  you?  " 

I  did  not  look  at  him,  but  he  said,  after  a  pause: 

''  I  had  the  feeling  that,  if  I  tried,  I  could  win  your  love. 
I  never  was  such  a  presumptuous  fool  as  to  suppose  that  you 
would  love  me  unasked — or  even  with  much  asking  on  my 
part — hewahre !  " 

I  was  silent,  still  concealing  my  face.     He  went  on: 

"  Besides,  I  knew  that  you  were  an  English  lady.  I  asked 
myself  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  I  decided  that, 
though  you  would  consider  me  an  ill-mannered,  churlish 
clown,  I  would  refuse  those  gracious,  charming  advances 
which  you  in  your  charity  made.  Our  paths  in  life  were 
destined  to  be  utterly  apart  and  divided,  and  what  could  it 
matter  to  you — the  behavior  of  an  insignificant  fiddler?  You 
would  forget  him  just  when  he  deserved  to  be  forgotten,  that 
is — instantly. 

"  Time  went  on.  You  lived  near  us.  Changes  took  place. 
Those  who  had  a  right  to  arbitrate  for  me,  since  I  had  by  my 
own  deed  deprived  myself  of  that  right,  wrote  and  demanded 
my  son.     I  had  shown  myself  incapable  of  managing  my  own 


310  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

affairs — was  it  likely  that  I  could  arrange  his?  And  then  he 
was  better  away  from  such  a  black  sheep.  It  is  true.  The 
black  sheep  gave  up  the  white  lambling  into  the  care  of  a 
legitimate  shepherd,  who  carried  it  off  to  a  correct  and  appro- 
priate fold.  Then  life  was  empty  indeed,  for,  strange  though 
it  may  seem,  even  black  sheep  have  feelings — ridiculously 
out  of  place  they  are,  too." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  so  harshly! "  said  I  tremulously,  laying 
my  hand  for  an  instant  upon  his. 

His  face  was  turned  toward  me;  his  mien  was  severe,  but 
serene;  he  spoke  as  of  some  far-past,  distant  dream. 

"  Then  it  was,  in  looldng  round  my  darkened  horizon  for 
Sigmund,  I  found  that  it  was  not  empty.  You  rose  trem- 
bling upon  it  like  a  star  of  light,  and  how  beautiful  a  star! 
But  there!  do  not  turn  away.  I  will  not  shock  you  by  expa- 
tiating upon  it.  Enough  that  I  found  what  I  had  more  than. 
once  suspected — that  I  loved  you.  Once  or  twice  I  nearly 
made  a  fool  of  myself;  that  Carnival  Monday — do  you  re- 
member? Luckily  Friedel  and  Karl  came  in,  but  in  my 
saner  moments  I  worshiped  you  as  a  noble,  distant  good — 
part  of  the  beautiful  life  which  I  had  gambled  with — and 
lost.  Be  easy!  I  never  for  one  instant  aspired  to  you — 
never  thought  of  possessing  you;  I  was  not  quite  mad.  I  am 
only  telling  you  this  to  explain,  and " 

"  And  you  renounced  me?  "  said  I  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  renounced  you." 

I  removed  my  hand  from  my  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  His 
€yes,  dry  and  calm,  rested  upon  my  face.  His  countenance 
was  pale;  his  mouth  set  with  a  grave,  steady  sweetness. 

Light  rushed  in  upon  my  mind  in  a  radiant  flood — ^light 
and  knowledge.  I  knew  what  was  right;  an  unerring  finger 
pointed  it  to  me.  I  looked  deep,  deep  into  his  sad  eyes,  read 
his  innermost  soul,  and  found  it  pure. 

"  They  say  you  have  committed  a  crime,"  said  I. 

"  And  I  have  not  denied  it,  cannot  deny  it,"  he  answered, 
as  if  waiting  for  something  further. 

"You  need  not"  said  I.  "It  is  all  one  to  me.  I  want 
to  hear  no  more  about  that.  I  want  to  know  if  your  heart 
is  mine." 

The  wind  wuthered  wearily;  the  water  rushed.  Strange, 
inarticulate  sounds  of  the  night  came  fitfully  across  ear  and 
sense,  as  he  answered  me: 

"  Yours  and  my  honor's.     What  then?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  311 

*'  This,"  I  answered,  stooping,  sweeping  the  loose  hair  from 
that  broad,  sad  forehead,  and  pressing  my  lips  upon  it. 
"This:  accept  the  gift  or  reject  it.  As  your  heart  is  mine, 
so  mine  is  yours — for  ever  and  ever." 

A  momentary  silence  as  I  raised  myself,  trembling,  and 
stood  aside;  and  the  water  rushed,  and  the  storm-birds  on 
untiring  wing  beat  the  sky  and  croaked  of  the  gale. 

Then  he  drew  me  to  him,  folded  me  to  his  breast  without 
speaking,  and  gave  me  a  long,  tender,  yearning  kiss,  with 
unspeakable  love,  little  passion  in  it,  fit  seal  of  a  love  that 
was  deeper  and  sadder  than  it  was  triumphant. 

"  Let  me  have  a  few  moments  of  this,"  said  he,  "  Just  a  few 
moments.  May.  Let  me  believe  that  I  may  hold  you  to 
your  noble,  pitying  words.  Then  I  shall  be  my  own  master 
again." 

Ignoring  this  hint  I  laid  my  hands  upon  his  arm,  and, 
eying  him  steadily,  went  on: 

"  But  understand,  the  man  I  love  must  not  be  my  servant. 
If  you  want  to  keep  me,  you  must  be  the  master;  I  brook  no 
feeble  curb;  no  weak  hand  can  hold  me.  You  must  rule,  or 
I  shall  rebel;  you  must  show  the  way,  for  I  don't  know  it. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  understand  what  you  have 
undertaken." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  excited.  Your  generosity  carries  you 
away,  and  your  divine,  womanly  pity  and  kindness.  You 
speak  without  thinking.     You  will  repent  to-morrow." 

"  That  is  not  kind  nor  worthy  of  you,"  said  I.  "  I  have 
thought  about  it  for  sixteen  months,  and  the  end  of  my 
thought  has  always  been  the  same:  I  love  Eugen  Courvoisier, 
and  if  he  had  loved  me  I  should  have  been  a  happy  woman, 
and  if — though  I  thought  it  too  good  to  be  true,  you  know 
— if  he  ever  should  tell  me  so,  nothing  in  this  world  shall 
make  me  spoil  our  two  lives  by  cowardice;  I  will  hold  to  him 
against  the  whole  world." 

"  It  is  impossible.  May,"  he  said  quietly,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
wish  you  had  never  seen  me." 

"  It  is  only  impossible  if  you  make  it  so." 

"  My  sin  found  me  out  even  here,  in  this  quiet  place, 
where  I  knew  no  one.  It  will  find  me  out  again.  You — if 
ever  you  were  married  to  me — would  be  pointed  out  as  the- 
wife  of  a  man  who  had  disgraced  his  honor  in  the  blackest, 
foulest  way.     I  must  and  will  live  it  out  alone." 

"  You  shall  not  live  it  out  alone,"  I  said. 


312  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

The  idea  that  I  could  now  stand  by  him — the  fact  that  he 
was  not  prosperous,  not  stainless  before  the  world — that  mine 
would  be  no  ordinary  flourishing,  meaningless  marriage,  in 
which  "  for  better,  for  worse  "  signifies  nothing  but  better, 
no  worse — all  this  poured  strength  on  strength  into  my  heart, 
and  seemed  to  warm  it  and  do  it  good. 

"  I  will  tell  you  your  duty,"  said  he.  "  Your  duty  is  to  go 
home  and  forget  me.  In  due  time  someone  else  will  find  the 
loveliest  and  dearest  being  in  the  world " 

"  Eugen!  Eugen!  "  I  cried,  stabbed  to  the  quick.  "  How 
can  you?  You  cannot  love  me,  or  you  could  not  coldly  turn 
me  over  to  some  other  man,  some  abstraction " 

"  Perhaps  if  he  were  not  an  abstraction  I  might  not  be  able 
to  do  it,"  he  said,  suddenly  clasping  me  to  him  vnih.  a  jealous 
movement.  "No;  I  am  sure  I  should  not  be  able  to  do  it. 
ISTevertheless,  while  he  yet  is  an  abstraction,  and  because  of 
that,  I  say,  leave  me!  " 

"  Eugen,  I  do  not  love  lightly!  "  I  began,  with  forced  calm. 
*'  I  do  not  love  twice.  My  love  for  you  is  not  a  mere  fancy — 
I  fought  against  it  with  all  my  strength;  it  mastered  me  in 
spite  of  myself — now  I  cannot  tear  it  away.  If  you  send  me 
away  it  will  be  barbarous;  away  to  be  alone,  to  England  again, 
when  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul.  No  one  but  a  man — no 
one  but  you  could  have  said  such  a  thing.  If  you  do,"  I 
added,  terror  at  the  prospect  overcoming  me,  "  if  you  do  I 
shall  die — I  shall  die." 

I  could  command  myself  no  longer,  but  sobbed  aloud. 
'  You  will  have  to  answer  for  it,"  I  repeated;  "  but  you 
will  not  send  me  away." 

"What,  in  Heaven's  name,  makes  you  love  me  so?"  he 
asked,  as  if  lost  in  wonder. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  I,  with  happy 
politeness.  "  It  is  no  fault  of  mine."  I  took  his  hand  in 
mine.  "  Eugen,  look  at  me."  His  eyes  met  mine.  They 
brightened  as  he  looked  at  me.  "  That  crime  of  which  you 
were  accused — you  did  not  do  it." 

Silence! 

"  Look  at  me  and  say  that  you  did,"  I  continued. 

Silence  still. 

"  Eriedhelm  Helfen  always  said  you  had  not  done  it.  He 
was  more  loyal  than  I,"  said  I  contritely;  "  but,"  I  added 
jealously,  "  he  did  not  love  you  better  than  I,  for  I  loved  you 
all  the  same,  even  though  I  almost  believed  you  had  done  it. 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLim  313 

Well,  that  is  an  easy  secret  to  keep,  because  it  is  to  your 
credit." 

"  That  is  just  what  makes  it  hard.  If  it  were  true,  one 
would  be  anxious,  rather  than  not,  to  conceal  it;  but  as  it  is 
not  true,  don't  you  see?  Whenever  you  see  me  suspected,  it 
will  be  the  impulse  of  your  loyal,  impetuous  heart  to  silence 
the  offender,  and  tell  him  he  lies." 

In  my  haste  I  had  not  seen  this  aspect  of  the  question.  It 
was  quite  a  new  idea  to  me.  Yes,  I  began  to  see  in  truer  pro- 
portions the  kind  of  suffering  he  had  suffered,  the  kind  of 
trials  he  had  gone  through,  and  my  breath  failed  at  the  idea. 
When  they  pointed  at  him  I  must  not  say,  "  It  is  a  lie;  he  is 
as  honest  as  you."  It  was  a  solemn  prospect.  It  over- 
powered me. 

"  You  quail  before  that  ?  "  said  he  gently,  after  a  pause. 

"  No;  I  realize  it — I  do  not  quail  before  it,"  said  I  firmly. 
**  But,"  I  added,  looking  at  him  with  a  new  element  in  my 
glance — that  of  awe — "  do  you  mean  that  for  five  years  you 
have  effaced  yourself  thus,  knowing  all  the  while  that  you 
were  not  guilty  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  matter  of  the  clearest  duty — and  honor,"  he  re- 
plied, flushing  and  looking  somewhat  embarrassed. 

"  Of  duty!  "  I  cried,  strangely  moved.  "  If  you  did  not  do 
it,  who  did?     Why  are  you  silent?  " 

Our  eyes  met.  I  shall  never  forget  that  glance.  It  had 
the  concentrated  patience,  love,  and  pride,  and  loyalty,  of  all 
the  years  of  suffering  past  and — to  come. 

•'  May,  that  is  the  test  for  you!  That  is  what  I  shrink  from 
exposing  you  to;  what  I  know  it  is  wrong  to  expose  you  to.  I 
cannot  tell  you.  No  one  knows  but  I,  and  I  shall  never  tell 
anyone,  not  even  you,  if  you  become  my  other  self  an.d  soul 
and  thought.     Now  you  know  all." 

He  was  silent. 

"  So  that  is  the  truth?  "  said  I.  "  Thank  you  for  telling  it 
to  me.  I  always  thought  you  were  a  hero;  now  I  am  sure  of 
it.  Oh,  Eugen!  how  I  do  love  you  for  this!  And  you  need 
not  be  afraid.  I  have  been  learning  to  keep  secrets  lately.  I 
shall  help,  not  hinder  you.  Eugen,  we  will  live  it  down 
together." 

At  last  we  understood  each  other.  At  last  our  hands 
clasped  and  our  lips  met  upon  the  perfect  union  of  feeling  and 
purpose  for  all  our  future  lives.  All  was  clear  between  us, 
bright,  calm;  and  I,  at  least,  was  supremely  happy.     How 


814  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK 

little  my  past  looked  now;  how  petty  and  insignificant  all  my 
former  hopes  and  fears! 

Dawn  was  breaking  over  the  river.  Wild  and  storm-beaten 
was  the  scene  on  which  we  looked.  A  huge  waste  of  swollen 
waters  around  us,  devastated  villages,  great  piles  of  wreck  on 
all  sides;  a  watery  sun  casting  paUid  beams  upon  the  swollen 
river.  We  were  sailing  Hollandward  upon  a  fragment  of  the 
bridge,  and  in  the  distance  were  the  spires  and  towers  of  a 
town  gleaming  in  the  sickly  sun-rays.  I  stood  up  and  gazed 
toward  that  town,  and  he  stood  by  my  side,  his  arm  round  my 
waist.     My  chief  wish  was  that  our  sail  could  go  on  forever. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  ringing  in  my  ears  and  will  not  leave 
my  mind?  "  I  asked. 

"  Indeed  no!     You  are  a  riddle  and  a  mystery  to  me." 

I  hummed  the  splendid  air  from  the  Choral  Symphony,  the 
motif  of  the  music  to  the  choruses  to  "  Joy  "  which  follow. 

"  x\h!  "  said  he,  taking  up  its  deep,  solemn  gladness,  "  you 
are  right,  May — quite  right.  There  is  a  joy,  if  it  be  '  beyond 
the  starry  belt.' " 

"  I  wonder  what  that  town  is?  "  I  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  fancy  it  is  Emmerich.  I  am  sure  I 
hope  so." 

Whatever  the  town,  we  were  floating  straight  toward  it.  I 
suddenly  thought  of  my  dream  long  ago,  and  told  it  to  him, 
adding: 

"  I  think  this  must  have  been  the  floating  wreck  to  which 
you  and  I  seemed  clinging;  though  I  thought  that  all  of  the 
dream  that  was  going  to  be  fulfilled  had  already  come  to  pass 
on  that  Carnival  Monday  afternoon." 

The  boat  had  got  into  one  of  the  twisting  currents,  and  was 
being  propelled  directly  toward  the  town. 

Eugen  looked  at  me  and  laughed.     I  asked  why. 

"  What  for  a  lark!  as  they  say  in  your  country." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  I  never  heard  such  an  expres- 
sion.    But  what  is  such  a  lark?  " 

"We  have  no  hats;  we  want  something  to  eat;  we  must 
have  tickets  to  get  back  to  Elberthal,  and  I  have  just  two 
thalers  in  my  pocket — oh!  and  a  two-pfennige  piece.  I  left 
my  little  all  behind  me." 

"  Hurrah!  At  last  you  will  be  compelled  to  take  back  that 
three  thalers  ten." 

We  both  laughed  at  this  jcu  d' esprit  as  if  it  had  been  some- 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  315 

thing  exquisitely  witty;  and  I  forgot  my  disheveled  condi- 
tion in  watching  the  sun  rise  over  the  broad  river,  in  feeling 
our  noiseless  progression  over  it,  and,  above  all,  in  the  divine 
sense  of  oneness  and  htirmony  with  him  at  my  side — a  feeling 
which  I  can  hardly  describe,  utterly  without  the  passionate 
fitfulness  of  the  orthodox  lover's  rapture,  but  as  if  for  a  long 
time  I  had  been  waiting  for  some  quality  to  make  me  com- 
plete, and  had  quietly  waked  to  find  it  there,  and  the  world 
understandable — life's  riddle  read. 

Eugen's  caresses  were  few,  his  words  of  endearment  quiet; 
but  I  knew  what  they  stood  for;  a  love  rooted  in  feelings 
deeper  than  those  of  sense,  holier  than  mere  earthly  love — 
feelings  which  had  taken  root  in  adversity,  had  grown  in  dark- 
ness and  "  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  " — feelings  which 
in  him  had  their  full  and  noble  growth  and  beauty  of  develop- 
ment, but  which  it  seems  to  be  the  aim  of  the  fashionable 
education  of  this  period  as  much  as  possible  to  do  away  with 
— the  feeling  of  chivalry,  delicacy,  reticence,  manliness, 
modesty. 

As  we  drew  nearer  the  town  he  said  to  me: 

"  In  a  few  hours  we  shall  have  to  part,  May,  for  a  time. 
While  we  are  here  alone,  and  you  are  uninfluenced,  let  me  ask 
you  something.  This  love  of  yours  for  me — what  will  it  carry 
you  through?  " 

"  Anything,  now  that  I  am  sure  of  yours  for  me." 

"  In  short,  you  are  firmly  decided  to  be  my  wife  some 
time?" 

''  When  you  tell  me  you  are  ready  for  me,"  said  I,  putting 
my  hand  in  his. 

"  And  if  I  find  it  best  to  leave  my  Fatherland,  and  begin 
life  quite  anew?" 

"  Thy  God  is  my  God,  and  thy  people  are  my  people, 
Eugen." 

"  One  other  thing.  How  do  you  know  that  you  can  marry? 
Your  friends " 

"  I  am  twenty  years  old.  In  a  year  I  can  do  as  I  like,"  said 
I  composedly.  "  Surely  we  can  stand  firm  and  faithful  for 
a  year?  " 

He  smiled,  and  it  was  a  new  smile — sweet,  hopeful,  if  not 
merry. 

With  this  silent  expression  of  determination  and  trust  we 
settled  the  matter. 


S16  (  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

CHAPTER  II. 

"  What's  failure  or  success  to  me? 
I  have  subdued  my  life  to  the  one  purposa.' 


It 


EuGEN  sent  a  telegram  from  Emcmerich  to  Frau  Mittendorf 
to  reassure  her  as  to  my  safety.  At  four  in  the  afternoon  we 
left  that  town,  refreshed  and  rehatted,  to  reach  Elberthal 
at  six. 

I  told  Eugen  that  we  were  going  away  the  next  day  to  stay 
a  short  time  at  a  place  called  Lahnburg. 

He  started  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Lahnburg!  I — when  you  are  there — nein,  das  ist 

You  are  going  to  Lahnburg?  " 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"  You  will  know  why  I  ask  if  you  go  to  Schloss  Eothenf  els." 

"Why?" 

"  I  say  no  more,  dear  May.  I  will  leave  you  to  form  your 
own  conclusions.  I  have  seen  that  this  fair  head  could  think 
wisely  and  well  under  trying  circumstances  enough.  I  am 
rather  glad  that  you  are  going  to  Lahnburg." 

"  The  question  is — will  you  still  be  at  Elberthal  when  I 
return." 

"  I  cannot  say.  We  had  better  exchange  addresses.  I  am 
at  Frau  Schmidt's  again — my  old  quarters.  I  do  not  know 
when  or  how  we  shall  meet  again.  I  must  see  Friedhelm,  and 
you — when  you  tell  your  friends,  you  will  probably  be 
separated  at  once  and  completely  from  me." 

"  Well,  a  year  is  not  much  out  of  our  lives.  How  old  are 
you,  Eugen?" 

"  Thirty-two.     And  you?  " 

"  Twenty  and  two  months;  then  you  are  twelve  years  older 
than  I.  You  were  a  schoolboy  when  I  was  born.  What  were 
you  like?  " 

"  A  regular  little  brute,  I  should  suppose,  as  they  all  are." 

"  When  we  are  married,"  said  I,  "  perhaps  I  may  go  on  with 
my  singing,  and  earn  some  more  money  by  it.  My  voice  will 
be  worth  something  to  me  then." 

"  I  thought  you  had  given  up  art." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  see  Adelaide,"  I  added;  "  or,  rather,  I  will 
see  her."  I  looked  at  him  rather  inquiringly.  To  my  relief, 
he  said: 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIK  317 

"  Have  you  not  seen  her  since  her  marriage? '' 

"No;  have  you?" 

"  She  was  my  angel  nurse  when  I  was  lying  in  hospital 

at .     Did  you  not  know  that  she  has  the  Iron  Cross? 

And  no  one  ever  won  it  more  nobly." 

"Adelaide — your  nurse — the  Iron  Cross?"  I  ejaculated. 
"  Then  you  have  seen  her?  " 

"  Seen  her  shadow  to  bless  it." 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  is  now?  '* 

"  With  her  husband  at .     She  told  me  that  you  were 

in  England,  and  she  gave  me  this." 

He  handed  me  a  yellow,  much-worn  folded  paper,  which, 
on  opening,  I  discovered  to  be  my  own  letter  to  Adelaide, 
written  during  the  war,  and  which  had  received  so  curt  an 
answer. 

"  I  begged  very  hard  for  it,"  said  he,  "  and  only  got  it  with 
difficulty,  but  I  represented  that  she  might  get  more  of  them, 
whereas  I " 

He  stopped,  for  two  reasons.  I  was  weeping  as  I  returned 
it  to  him,  and  the  train  rolled  into  the  Elberthal  station. 

On  my  way  to  Dr.  IVIittendorf's  I  made  up  my  mind  what 
to  do.  I  should  not  speak  to  Stella,  nor  to  anyone  else,  of 
what  had  happened,  but  I  should  write  very  soon  to  my  par- 
ents and  tell  them  the  truth.  I  hoped  they  would  not  refuse 
their  consent,  but  I  feared  they  would.  I  should  certainly 
not  attempt  to  disobey  them  while  their  authority  legally 
bound  me,  but  as  soon  as  I  was  my  own  mistress,  I  should  act 
upon  my  own  Judgment.  I  felt  no  fear  of  anything;  the  one 
fear  of  my  life — the  loss  of  Eugen — had  been  removed,  and 
all  others  d\vindled  to  nothing.  My  happiness,  I  am  and  was 
well  aware,  was  quite  set  upon  things  below;  if  I  lost  Eugen 
I  lost  everything,  for  I,  like  him,  and  like  all  those  who  have 
been  and  are  dearest  to  both  of  us,  was  a  Child  of  the  World. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Oftmals  hab'  ich  geirrt,  und  habe  mich  wiedergefunden, 
Aber  gliicklicher  nie." 

It  was  beginning  to  be  dusk  when  we  alighted  the  next  day 
at  Lahnburg,  a  small  wayside-station,  where  the  doctor's 
brand-new  carriage  met  us,  and  after  we  had  been  bidden  wel' 


818  TEE  FIRST  ¥101127. 

come,  whirled  us  off  to  the  doctor's  brand-new  schloss,  full  of 
brand-new  furniture.  I  skip  it  all — the  renewed  greetings, 
the  hospitality,  the  noise.  They  were  very  kind.  It  was  all 
right  to  me,  and  I  enjoyed  it  immensely.  I  was  in  a  state  of 
mind  in  which  I  verily  believe  I  should  have  enjoyed  eating 
a  plate  of  porridge  for  supper  or  a  dish  of  sauerkraut  for 
dinner. 

The  subject  for  complacency  and  contemplation  in  Frau 
Mittendorf's  life  was  her  intimacy  with  the  Von  Eothenfels 
family,  whose  great,  dark  old  schloss,  or  rather,  a  portion  of 
it,  looking  grimly  over  its  woods,  she  pointed  out  to  me  from 
the  windows  of  her  salon.  I  looked  somewhat  curiously  at  it, 
chiefly  because  Eugen  had  mentioned  it,  and  also  because  it 
was  such  a  stem,  imposing  old  pile.  It  was  built  of  red  stone, 
and  stood  upon  red-stone  foundations.  Red  were  the  rocks 
of  this  country,  and  hence  its  name,  "Rothen-fels,"  the  red 
rocks.  Woods,  also  dark,  but  now  ablaze  with  the  last  fiery 
autumn  tints,  billowed  beneath  it;  on  the  other  side,  said  Frau 
Mittendorf ,  was  a  great  plateau  covered  with  large  trees,  inter- 
sected by  long,  straight  avenues.  She  would  take  us  to  look 
at  it;  the  Grafin  von  Eothenfels  was  a  great  friend  of  hers. 

She  was  entertaining  us  with  stories  to  prove  the  great 
regard  and  respect  of  the  countess  for  her  (Frau  Mittendorf) 
on  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  while  I  was  longing  to  go 
out  and  stroll  along  some  of  those  pleasant  breezy  upland 
roads,  or  explore  the  sleepy,  quaint  old  town  below. 

Upon  her  narrative  came  an  interruption.  A  servant  threw 
open  the  door  very  ^vide,  announcing  the  Grafin  von  Eothen- 
fels. Frau  Mittendorf  rose  in  a  tremulous  hurry  and  flutter 
to  greet  her  noble  guest,  and  then  introduced  us  to  her. 

A  tall,  melancholy,  meager-looking  woman,  far  past  youth 
— on  the  very  confines  of  middle  age,  with  iron-gray  hair 
banded  across  a  stern,  much-lined  brow.  Colorless  features 
of  a  strong,  large,  not  unhandsome  type  from  which  all  live- 
liness and  vivacity  had  long  since  fled.  A  stern  mouth — 
steady,  luster] ess,  severe  eyes;  a  dignity — yes,  even  a  majesty 
of  mien  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  soften  into  gracious- 
ness;  black,  trailing  draperies;  a  haughty  pride  of  movement. 

Such  was  the  first  impression  made  upon  me  by  Hilde- 
garde,  Countess  of  Eothenfels — a  forbidding,  if  grand  figure 
— aristocrat  in  every  line;  utterly  alien  and  apart,  I  thought, 
from  me  and  every  feeling  of  mine. 

Bat,  on  looking  again,  the  human  element  was  found  in 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  810 

the  deeply  planted  sadness  which  no  reserve  pride  could  con- 
ceal. Sad  the  eyes,  sad  the  mouth;  she  was  all  sad  together 
— and  not  without  reason,  as  I  afterward  learned. 

She  was  a  rigid  Roman  Catholic,  and  at  sixteen  had  been 
married  for  les  convenances  to  her  cousin,  Count  Bruno  von 
Rothenfels,  a  man  a  good  deal  older  than  herself,  though  not 
preposterously  so,  and  whose  ample  possessions  and  old  name 
gave  social  position  of  the  highest  kind.  But  he  was  a 
Protestant  by  education,  a  thinker  by  nature,  a  rationalist  by 
conviction. 

That  was  one  bitter  grief.  Another  was  her  childlessness. 
She  had  been  married  twenty-four  years;  no  child  had  sprung 
from  the  union.  This  was  a  continual  grief,  which  embittered 
her  whole  existence. 

Since  then  I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  her  at  twenty — a  splen- 
did brunette,  with  high  spirit  and  resolute  will  and  noble 
beauty  in  every  line.  Ah,  me!  What  wretches  v^e  become! 
Sadness  and  bitterness,  proud  aloofness  and  a  yearning  wist- 
fulness,  were  subtly  mingled  in  the  demeanor  of  Grafin  von 
Rothenfels. 

She  bowed  to  us,  as  Frau  Mittendorf  introduced  us.  She 
did  not  bestow  a  second  glance  upon  Stella;  but  bent  a  long 
look,  a  second,  a  third  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  me.  I — I  am 
not  ashamed  to  own  it — quivered  somewhat  under  her  search- 
ing glance.     She  impressed  and  fascinated  me. 

She  seated  lierself,and  slightly  apologizing  to  us  for  intrud- 
ing domestic  affairs,  began  to  speak  with  Frau  Mittendorf  of 
some  case  of  village  distress  in  which  they  were  both  inter- 
ested. Then  she  turned  again  to  us,  speaking  in  excellent 
English,  and  asked  us  whether  we  were  staying  there,  after 
which  she  invited  us  to  dine  at  her  house  the  following  day 
with  Frau  Mittendorf.  After  the  invitation  had  been  ac- 
cepted with  sufficient  reverence  by  that  lady,  the  countess  rose 
as  if  to  go,  and,  turning  again  to  me  with  still  that  pensive, 
half -wistful,  half -mistrustful  gaze,  she  said: 

"  I  have  my  carriage  here.  Would  you  like  to  come  with 
me  to  see  our  woods  and  house?  They  are  sometimes  inter- 
esting to  strangers." 

"  Oh,  very  much!  "  I  said  eagerly. 

"  Then  come,"  said  she.  "  I  will  see  that  you  are  escorted 
back  when  you  are  tired.  It  is  arranged  that  you  remain 
until  you  feel  gene,  niclit  wahr?  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you!  "  said  I  again,  hastening  to  make  myself 


820  THE  FIRST  YIOLIN. 

ready,  and  parenthetically  hoping,  as  I  ran  upstairs,  that  Fran 
Mittendorf' s  eyes  might  not  start  quite  out  of  her  head  with 
pride  at  the  honor  conferred  upon  her  house  and  visitors. 

Very  soon  I  was  seated  beside  the  Griifin  in  the  dark  green 
clarence,  with  the  grand  coachman  and  the  lady's  own  jager 
beside  him,  and  we  were  driving  along  a  white  road  wdth 
a  wild  kind  of  country  spreading  roud — moorland  stretches, 
and  rich  deep  woods.  Up  and  down,  for  the  way  was  uneven, 
till  we  entered  a  kind  of  park,  and  to  the  right,  high  above, 
I  saw  the  great  red  pile  with  its  little  pointed  towers  crowned 
with  things  like  extinguishers  ending  in  a  lightning-rod,  and 
which  seemed  to  spring  from  all  parts  of  the  heavy  mass  of  the 
main  building. 

That,  then,  was  Schloss  Eothenfels.  It  looked  the  very 
image  of  an  aristocratic,  ancient  feste  burg,  grim  and  grand; 
it  brooded  over  us  like  a  frown,  and  dominated  the  landscape 
for  miles  around.  I  was  deeply  impressed;  such  a  place  had 
always  been  like  a  dream  to  me. 

There  was  something  so  imposingly  conservative  about  it; 
it  looked  as  if  it  had  weathered  so  many  storms;  defying  such 
paltry  forces  as  wind  and  weather,  and  would  through  so 
many  more,  quite  untouched  by  the  roar  of  life  and  progress 
outside — a  fit  and  firm  keeping-place  for  old  shields,  for 
weapons  honorably  hacked  and  dinted,  for  tattered  loyal  flags 
— for  art  treasures  and  for  proud  beauties. 

As  we  gained  the  height,  I  perceived  the  huge  scale  on 
which  the  schloss  was  constructed.  It  was  a  little  town  in 
itself.  I  saw,  too,  that  plateau  on  the  other  side,  of  which 
I  had  heard;  later  I  explored  it.  It  was  a  natural  plain — 
a  kind  of  tableland,  and  was  laid  out  in  what  have  always, 
since  I  was  a  child,  impressed  me  more  than  any  other  kind 
of  surroundings  to  a  house — mile-long  avenues  of  great  trees, 
stretching  perfectly  straight,  like  lines  of  marcliing  troops  in 
every  direction. 

Long,  melancholy  alleys  and  avenues,  with  huge,  moss- 
grown  stone  figures  and  groups  guarding  the  terraces  or  keep- 
ing fantastic  watch  over  tbe  stone  tanks,  on  whose  surfaces 
floated  the  lazy  water-lilies.  Great  moss-grown  gods  and 
goddesses,  and  strange  hybrid  beasts,  and  fauns  and  satyrs, 
and  all  so  silent  and  forlorn,  with  the  lush  grass  and  heavy 
fern  growing  rank  and  thick  under  the  stately  trees.  To 
right  they  stretched  and  to  left;  and  straightaway  westward 
was  one  long,  wide,  vast,  deserted  avenue,  at  the  end  ol  which 


THE  FinST  VIOLim  321 

was  an  opening,  and  in  the  opening  a  huge  stone  myth  or 
figure  of  a  runner,  who,  in  the  act  of  racing,  receives  an 
arrow  in  his  heart,  and,  with  arms  madly  tossed  in  the  air, 
staggers. 

Behind  this  terrible  figure  the  sun  used  to  set,  flaming,  or 
mild,  or  sullen,  and  the  vast  arms  of  it  were  outlined  against 
the  gorgeous  sky,  or  in  the  half-dark  it  glimmered  like  a  ghost 
and  seemed  to  move.  It  had  been  there  so  long  that  none 
could  remember  the  legend  of  it.     It  was  a  grim  shape. 

Scattered  here  and  there  were  quaint  wildernesses  and 
pleasaunces — clipped  yews  and  oddly  trained  shrubs  and 
flowers  trying  to  make  a  diversion,  but  ever  dominated  by  the 
huge  woods,  the  straight  avenues,  the  mathematical  melan- 
choly on  an  immense  scale. 

The  Frau  Griifin  glanced  at  me  once  or  twice  as  my  head 
turned  this  way  and  that,  and  my  eyes  could  not  take  in  the 
strange  scene  quickly  enough;  but  she  said  nothing,  nor  did 
lier  severe  face  relax  into  any  omile. 

We  stopped  under  a  huge  porte-cochere  in  which  more 
servants  were  standing  about. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  lady  to  me.  "  First  I  will  take 
you  to  my  rooms,  and  then,  when  you  have  rested  a  little,  you 
can  do  what  you  like." 

Pleased  at  the  prospect,  I  followed  her;  through  a  hall 
which  without  any  joking  was  baronial;  through  a  corridor 
into  a  room,  through  which  she  passed,  observing  to  me: 

"  This  is  the  rittersaal,  one  of  the  oldest  rooms  in  the 
house." 

The  rittersaal — a  real,  hereditary  Hall  of  Knights  where 
a  sangerkrieg  might  have  taken  place — where  Tannhauser 
and  the  others  might  have  contended  before  Elizabeth.  A 
polished  parquet — a  huge  hearth  on  which  burned  a  large 
bright  wood  fire,  whose  flames  sparkled  upon  suits  of  mail  in 
dozens — crossed  swords  and  lances,  over  which  hung  tattered 
banners  and  bannerets.  Shields  and  lances,  portraits  with 
each  a  pair  of  spurs  beneath  it — the  men  were  all  knights, 
of  that  line!  dark  and  grave  chiefly  were  these  lords  of  the 
line  of  Sturm.  In  the  center  of  the  hall  a  great  trophy  of 
arms  and  armor,  all  of  which  had  been  used,  and  used  to  pur- 
pose; the  only  drapery,  the  banners  over  these  lances  and 
portraits.  The  room  delighted  me  while  it  made  me  feel 
small — very  small.  The  countess  turned  at  a  door  at  the 
other  end  and  looked  back  upon  me  where  I  stood  gasping 


322  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

in  the  doorway  by  which  we  had  entered.  She  was  one  of 
the  house;  this  had  nothing  overpowering  for  her,  if  it  did 
give  some  of  the  pride  to  her  mien. 

I  hurried  after  her,  apologizing  for  my  tardiness;  she  waved 
the  words  back,  and  led  me  to  a  smaller  room,  which  appeared 
to  be  her  private  sitting  room.  Here  she  asked  me  to  lay 
aside  my  things,  adding  that  she  hoped  I  should  spend  the 
day  at  the  schloss. 

"  If  you  find  it  not  too  intolerably  stupid,"  she  added.  "  It 
is  a  dull  place." 

I  said  that  it  seemed  to  me  like  something  out  of  a  fairy 
tale,  and  that  I  longed  to  see  more  of  it  if  I  might. 

"  Assuredly  you  shall.  There  may  be  some  few  things 
which  you  may  like  to  see.  I  forget  that  everyone  is  not  like 
myself — tired.     Are  you  musical?" 

"  Very!  "  said  I  emphatically. 

"Then  you  will  be  interested  in  the  music  rooms  here. 
How  old  are  you?  " 

I  told  her.  She  bowed  gravely.  "You  are  young,  and, 
I  suppose,  happy?"  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,  I  am — very  happy — perfectly,"  said  I,  smiling,  be- 
cause I  could  not  help  it. 

"  When  I  saw  you  I  was  so  struck  with  that  look,"  said  she. 
"I  thought  I  had  never  seen  anyone  look  so  radiantly, 
transeendently  happy.  I  so  seldom  see  it — and  never  feel  it, 
and  I  wished  to  see  more  of  you.  I  am  very  glad  you 
are  so  happy — very  glad.  Now  I  will  not  keep  you  talk- 
ing to  me.  I  will  send  for  Herr  Nahrath,  who  shall  be  your 
guide." 

She  rang  the  bell.  I  wds  silent,  although  I  longed  to  say 
that  I  could  talk  to  her  for  a  day  without  thinking  of  weari- 
ness, which  indeed  was  true.  She  impressed  and  fasci- 
nated me. 

"  Send  Herr  Nahrath  here,"  she  said,  and  presently  there 
came  into  the  room  a  young  man  in  the  garb  of  what  is  called 
in  Germany  a  Kandidat — that  is  to  say,  an  embryo  pastor,  or 
parish  priest.  He  bowed  very  deeply  to  the  countess,  and 
did  not  speak  or  advance  much  beyond  the  door. 

Having  introduced  us,  she  desired  him  to  act  as  cicerone 
to  me  until  I  was  tired.  He  bowed,  and  I  did  not  dispute 
the  mandate,  although  I  would  rather  have  remained  with 
her,  and  got  to  know  sometliing  of  the  nature  that  lay  behind 
those  gray  passionless  features,  than  turn  to  the  society  of  that 


TEE  FIRST  YIOLUr.  323 

OTdug-looking  young  gentleman  who  waited  so  respectfully, 
like  a  machine  whose  mainspring  was  awe. 

I  accompanied  him,  nevertheless,  and  he  showed  me  part 
of  the  schloss,  and  endeavored,  in  the  intervals  of  his  tolerably 
arduous  task  of  cicerone,  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  mo.  It 
was  a  wonderful  place  indeed — this  schloss.  The  deeper  we 
penetrated  into  it  the  more  absorbed  and  interested  did  I  be- 
come. Such  piled-up,  profusely  scattered  treasures  of  art  it 
had  never  before  fallen  to  my  lot  to  behold.  The  abundance 
was  prodigal;  the  judgment,  cultivation,  high  perception  of 
truth,  rarity,  and  beauty,  seemed  almost  faultless.  Gems  of 
pictures — treasures  of  sculpture,  bronze,  china,  carvings,  glass, 
coins,  curiosities  which  it  would  have  taken  a  lifetime  prop- 
erly to  learn.  Here  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  private  library 
on  a  large  scale,  collected  by  generation  after  generation  of 
highly  cultured  men  and  women — a  perfect  thing  of  its  kind, 
and  one  which  impressed  me  mightily;  but  it  was  not  there 
that  I  was  destined  to  find  the  treasure  which  lay  hidden  for 
me  in  this  enchanted  palace.  We  strayed  over  an  acre  or  so 
of  passage  and  corridor  till  he  paused  before  an  arched  door 
across  which  was  hung  a  curtain,  and  over  which  was  in- 
scribed Musik-kammem  (the  music-rooms). 

"  If  you  wish  to  see  the  music,  mein  Frdulein,  I  must  leave 
you  in  the  hands  of  Herr  Brunken,  who  will  tolerate  no  cice- 
rone but  himself." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  to  see  it,  certainly,"  said  I,  on  fire  with 
curiosity. 

He  knocked  and  was  bidden  Herein  !  but  not  going  in,  told 
someone  inside  that  he  recommended  to  his  charge  a  young 
lady  staying  with  the  countess,  and  who  was  desirous  of  seeing 
the  collection. 

"  Pray,  mein  Frdulein,  come  in!  "  said  a  voice.  Herr  Nah- 
rath  left  me,  and  I,  lifting  the  curtain  and  pushing  open  the 
half-closed  door,  found  myself  in  an  octagonal  room,  con- 
fronted by  the  quaintest  figure  I  had  ever  seen.  An  old  man 
whose  long  gray  hair,  long  white  beard,  and  long  black  robe 
made  him  look  like  a  wizard  or  astrologer  of  some  mediaival 
romance,  was  smiling  at  me  and  bidding  me  welcome  to  his 
domain.  He  was  the  librarian  and  general  custodian  of  the 
musical  treasures  of  Schloss  Eothenfels,  and  his  name  was 
Brunken.  He  loved  his  place  and  his  treasures  with  a  jealous 
love,  and  would  talk  of  favorite  instniments  as  if  they  had 
been  dear  children,  and  of  great  composers  as  if  they  were  gods. 


$24  TEE  FIliST  VlOZm. 

All  around  the  room  were  large  shelves  filled  with  music 
— and  over  each  division  stood  a  name — such  mighty  names 
as  Scarlatti,  Bach,  Handel,  Beethoven,  Schumann,  Mozart, 
Haydn — all  the  giants,  and  apparently  all  the  pygmies,  too, 
were  there.  It  was  a  complete  library  of  music,  and  though 
I  have  seen  many  since,  I  have  never  beheld  any  which  in 
the  least  approached  this  in  richness  or  completeness.  Eare 
old  manuscript  scores;  priceless  editions  of  half -forgotten 
music;  the  Hterature  of  the  productions  of  half -forgotten  com- 
posers; Eastern  music.  Western  music;  and  music  of  all  ages; 
it  was  an  idealized  collection — a  musician's  paradise,  only  less 
so  than  that  to  which  he  now  led  me,  from  amid  the  piled-up 
scores  and  the  gleaming  busts  of  those  mighty  men,  who  here, 
at  least,  were  honored  with  never-faihng  reverence. 

He  took  me  into  a  second  room,  or  rather  hall,  of  great  size, 
height,  and  dimensions;  a  museum  of  musical  instruments. 
It  would  take  far  too' ,  ong  to  do  it  justice  in  description; 
indeed,  on  that  first  brief  investigation  I  could  only  form  a 
dim  general  idea  of  the  richness  of  its  treasures.  What  his- 
tories— what  centuries  of  story  were  there  piled  up!  Musical 
instruments  of  every  imaginable  form  and  shape,  and  in  every 
stage  of  development.  Odd-looking  prehistoric  bone  embryo 
instruments  from  diflierent  parts  of  France.  Strange  old 
things  from  Nineveh,  and  India,  and  Peru;  instruments  from 
tombs  and  pyramids,  and  ancient  ruined  temples  in  tropic 
groves — tilings  whose  very  nature  and  handling  are  a  mystery 
and  a  dispute — tuned  to  strange  scales  which  produce  strange 
melodies,  and  carry  us  back  into  other  worlds.  On  them,  per- 
haps, has  the  swarthy  Ninevan,  or  slight  Hindoo,  or  some 

"  Dusky  youth  with  painted  plumage  gay  " 

performed  as  he  apostrophized  his  mistress'  eyebrow.  On 
that  queer-looking  thing  which  may  be  a  fiddle  or  not — which 
may  have  had  a  bow  or  not — a  slightly  clad  slave  made  music 
while  his  master  the  rajah  played  chess  with  his  favorite  wife. 
They  are  all  dead  and  gone  now,  and  their  jewels  are  worn 
by  others,  and  the  memory  of  them  has  vanished  from  off 
the  earth;  and  these,  their  musical  instruments,  repose  in 
a  quiet  comer  amid  the  rough  hills  and  oak  woods  and  under 
the  cloudy  skies  of  the  land  of  music — Deutschland. 

Down  through  the  changing  scale,  through  the  whole  range 
of  cymbal  and  spinet,  "  flute,  harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  dulci- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  325 

mer,  and  all  kinds  of  music,"  stand  literally  before  me,  and 
a  strange  revelation  it  is.  Is  it  the  same  faculty  which  pro- 
duces that  grand  piano  of  Bechstein's,  and  that  clarion  organ 
of  Silbermann's,  and  that  African  drum  dressed  out  with 
skulls,  that  war-trumpet  hung  with  tiger's  teeth?  After  this 
nothing  is  wonderful!  Strange,  unearthly  looldng  Chinese 
frames  of  sonorous  stones  or  modulated  bells;  huge  drums, 
painted  and  carved,  and  set  up  on  stands  six  feet  from  the 
ground;  quaint  instruments  from  the  palaces  of  Aztec  Incas, 
down  to  pianos  by  Broadwood,  Collard  &  Collard,  and 
Bechstein. 

There  were  trophies  of  Streichinstrumente  and  Blasein- 
strumente.  I  was  allowed  to  gaze  upon  two  real  Stradivarius 
fiddles.  I  might  see  the  development  by  evolution,  and  the 
survival  of  the  fittest  in  violin,  'cello,  contrabass,  alto,  beside 
countless  others  whose  very  names  have  perished  with  the 
time  that  produced  them,  and  the  fir  ^^rs  which  played  them 
— ingenious  guesses,  clever  misses — the  tragedy  of  harmony 
as  well  as  its  "  lo  Paean!  " 

There  were  wind  instruments,  quaint  old  double  flutes  from 
Italy;  pipes,  single,  double,  treble,  from  ages  much  further 
back;  harps — Assyrian,  Greek,  and  Eoman;  instruments  of 
percussion,  guitars,  and  zithers  in  every  form  and  kind;  a  dul- 
cimer— I  took  it  up  and  thought  of  Coleridge's  "  damsel  with 
a  dulcimer";  and  a  grand  organ,  as  well  as  many  incipient 
organs,  and  the  quaint  little  things  of  that  nature  from  China, 
Japan,  and  Siam. 

I  stood  and  gazed  in  wonder  and  amazem.ent. 

"  Surely  the  present  Graf  has  not  collected  all  these  instru- 
ments! "  said  I. 

"  Oh,  no,  mein  Frdulein;  they  have  been  accumulating  for 
centuries.  They  tell  strange  tales  of  what  the  Sturms  will 
do  for  music." 

With  which  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  certain  narratives  of 
certain  instruments  in  the  collection,  in  which  he  evidently 
firmly  believed,  including  one  relating  to  a  quaint  old  violin 
for  which  he  said  a  certain  Graf  von  Eothenfels  called  "  Max 
der  Tolle,"  or  the  Mad  Count  Max,  had  sold  his  soul. 

As  he  finished  this  last  he  was  called  away,  and,  excusing 
himself,  left  me.  I  was  alone  in  this  voiceless  temple  of  so 
many  wonderful  sounds.  I  looked  round,  and  a  feeling  of 
awe  and  weirdness  crept  over  me.  My  eyes  would  not  leave 
that  shabby  old  fiddle,  concerning  whose  demoniac  origin 


326  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  had  just  heard  such  a  cheerful  little  anecdote.  Every  one 
of  those  countless  instruments  was  capable  of  harmony  and 
discord — had  sometime  been  used;  pressed,  touched,  scraped, 
beaten,  or  blown  into  by  hands  or  mouths  long  since  crum- 
bled to  dust.  What  tales  had  been  told!  what  songs  sung, 
and  in  what  languages;  what  laughs  laughed,  tears  shed,  vows 
spoken,  kisses  exchanged,  over  some  of  those  silent  pieces  of 
wood,  brass,  ivory,  and  catgut!  The  feelings  of  all  the  liis- 
tories  that  surrounded  me  had  something  eerie  in  it. 

I  stayed  until  I  began  to  feel  nervous,  and  was  tliinMng 
of  going  away  when  sounds  from  a  third  room  drew  my  atten- 
tion. Someone  in  there  began  to  play  the  violin,  and  to  play 
it  with  no  ordinary  delicacy  of  manipulation.  There  was 
something  exquisitely  finished,  refined,  and  delicate  about  the 
performance;  it  lacked  the  bold  splendor  and  originality  of 
Eugen's  plajdng,  but  it  was  so  lovely  as  to  bring  tears  to  my 
eyes,  and,  moreover,  the  air  was  my  favorite  "  Traumerei." 
Something  in  those  sounds,  too,  was  familiar  to  me.  With 
a  sudden  beating  of  the  heart,  a  sudden  eagerness,  I  stepped 
hastily  forward,  pushed  back  the  dividing  curtain,  and  en- 
tered the  room  whence  proceeded  those  sounds. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  wliich  was  bare  and  empty,  but 
which  had  large  windows  looking  across  the  melancholy 
plateau,  and  to  the  terrible  figure  of  the  runner  at  the  end 
of  the  avenue,  stood  a  boy — a  child  with  a  violin.  He  was 
dressed  richly,  in  velvet  and  silk;  he  was  grown — the  slender 
dehcacy  of  his  form  was  set  off  by  the  fine  clothing  that  rich 
men's  children  wear;  his  beautiful  waving  black  hair  was 
somewhat  more  closely  cut,  but  the  melancholy  yet  richly 
colored  young  face  that  turned  toward  me — the  deep  and 
yearning  eyes,  the  large,  solemn  gaze,  the  premature  gravity, 
were  all  his — it  was  Sigmund,  Courvoisier's  boy. 

For  a  moment  we  both  stood  motionless — ^hardly  breath- 
ing; then  he  flung  his  violin  down,  sprung  forward  with  a 
low  sound  of  intense  joy,  exclaiming. 

"  Das  Frdulein;  das  Frdulein,  from  home!  "  and  stood  be- 
fore me,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

I  snatched  the  child  to  my  heart  (he  looked  so  much  older 
and  sadder),  and  covered  him  with  kisses. 

He  submitted — nay,  more,  he  put  his  arms  about  my  neck 
and  laid  his  face  upon  my  shoulder,  and  presently,  as  if  he 
had  fhoked  down  some  silent  emotion,  looked  up  at  me  with 
large,  imploring,  sad  eyes,  and  asked: 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  327 

"Have  you  seen  my  father? " 

"  Sigmund,  I  saw  him  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"You  saw  him — you  spoke  to  him,  perhaps?" 

"  Yes.     I  spoke  long  with  him." 

"What  did  he  look  like?" 

"  As  he  always  does — brave,  and  trae,  and  noble." 

"  NicM  waJir?  "  said  the  boy,  with  flashing  eyes.  "  I  know 
how  he  looks,  just.  I  am  waiting  till  I  am  grown  up,  that 
I  may  go  to  him  again." 

"  Do  you  like  me,  Sigmund?  " 

"  Yes;  very  much." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  love  me?  Would  you  trust  me 
to  love  those  you  love?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  him?  "  he  asked  point-blank,  and  looked  at 
me  somewhat  startled. 

"  Yes." 

"  I— don't— know." 

"  I  mean,  to  take  care  of  him,  and  try  to  make  him  happy 
till  you  come  to  him  again,  and  then  we  will  all  be  together." 

He  looked  doubtful  still. 

"What  I  mean,  Sigmund,  is  that  your  father  and  I  are 
going  to  be  married:  but  we  shall  never  be  quite  happy  until 
you  are  with  us." 

He  stood  still,  taking  it  in,  and  I  waited  in  much  anxiety. 
I  was  certain  that  if  I  had  time  and  opportunity  I  could  A\dn 
him;  but  I  feared  the  result  of  this  sudden  announcement  and 
separation.  He  might  only  see  that  his  father — his  supreme 
idol — could  turn  for  comfort  to  another,  while  he  would  not 
know  how  I  loved  him  and  longed  to  make  his  grave  young 
life  happy  for  him.  I  put  my  arm  around  his  shoulder,  and, 
kneeling  down  beside  him,  said: 

"  You  must  say  you  are  glad,  Sigmund,  or  you  -will  make 
me  very  unhappy.  I  want  you  to  love  me  as  well  as  him. 
Look  at  me  and  tell  me  you  will  trust  me  till  we  are  all  to- 
gether, for  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  together  some  day." 

He  still  hesitated  some  little  time,  but  at  last  said,  with 
the  sedateness  peculiar  to  him,  as  of  one  who  overcame  a 
struggle  and  made  a  sacrifice: 

"  If  he  has  decided  it  so  it  must  be  right,  you  know;  but — 
but — you  won't  let  him  forget  me,  will  you?  " 

The  child's  nature  overcame  that  which  had  been,  as  it 
were,  supplanted  and  grafted  upon  it.  The  lip  quivered,  the 
dark  eyes  filled  with  tears.     Poor  little  lonely  child!  desolate 


{J28  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  sad  in  the  midst  of  all  the  grandeur!  My  heart  yearned 
to  him. 

"Forget  you,  Sigmund?  Your  father  never  forgets,  he 
cannot! " 

"  I  wish  I  was  grown  up,"  was  all  he  said. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  how  he  got  there,  and  in 
what  relation  he  stood  to  these  people. 

"  Do  you  live  here,  Sigmund?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  relation  are  you  to  the  Herr  Graf?  " 

"  Graf  von  Rothenf  els  is  my  uncle." 

"  And  are  they  kind  to  you?  "  I  asked,  in  a  hasty  whisper, 
for  his  intense  gravity  and  sadness  oppressed  me.  I  trem- 
bled to  think  of  having  to  tell  his  father  in  what  state  I  had 
found  him. 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  said  he.     "  Yes,  very." 

''  W^iat  do  you  do  all  day?  " 

"  I  learn  lessons  from  Herr  Nahrath,  and  I  ride  with  Uncle 
Bruno,  and — and — oh!  I  do  whatever  I  like.  Uncle  Bruno 
says  that  sometime  I  shall  go  to  Bonn,  or  Heidelberg,  or  Jena, 
or  England,  whichever  I  Hke." 

"  And  have  you  no  friends?  " 

"I  like  being  with  Brunken  the  best.  He  talks  to  me 
about  my  father  sometimes.  He  knew  liim  when  he  was  only 
as  old  as  I  am." 

"  Did  he?     Oh,  I  did  not  know  that." 

"  But  they  won't  tell  me  why  my  father  never  comes  here, 
and  why  they  never  speak  of  him,"  he  added  wearily,  looking 
with  melancholy  eyes  across  the  lines  of  wood,  through  the 
wide  window. 

"  Be  sure  it  is  for  nothing  wrong.  He  does  nothing  wrong. 
He  does  nothing  but  what  is  good  and  right,"  said  I. 

"'  Oh,  of  course!  But  I  can't  tell  the  reason.  I  think  and 
think  about  it."  He  put  liis  hand  wearily  to  his  head. 
"  They  never  speak  of  him.  Once  I  said  something  about 
him.  It  was  at  a  great  dinner  they  had.  Aunt  Hildegarde 
turned  quite  pale,  and  Uncle  Bruno  called  me  to  him  and 
said — no  one  heard  it  but  me,  you  know — '  Never  let  me  hear 
that  name  again! '  and  his  eyes  looked  so  fierce.  I'm  tired 
of  this  place,"  he  added  mournfully.  "  I  want  to  be  at  El- 
berthal  again — at  the  Wehrhahn,  with  my  father  and  Fried- 
helm  and  Karl  Binders.  I  think  of  them  every  hour.  I 
liked  Kari  and  Eriedhelm,  and  Gretchea,  and  Frau  Schmidt." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  329 

"They  do  not  live  there  now,  dear,  Friedhelm  and  your 
father,"  said  I  gently. 

"  Not?     Then  where  are  they?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  was  forced  to  say.  "  They  were  fight- 
ing in  the  war.  I  think  they  live  at  Berlin  now,  but  I  am  not 
at  all  sure." 

This  uncertainty  seemed  to  cause  him  much  distress,  and 
he  would  have  added  more,  but  our  conversation  was  brought 
to  an  end  by  the  entrance  of  Brunken,  who  looked  rather 
surprised  to  see  us  in  such  close  and  earnest  consultation. 

"  Will  you  show  me  the  way  back  to  the  countess'  room?  " 
said  I  to  Sigmund. 

He  put  his  hand  in  mine,  and  led  me  through  many  of 
those  interminable  halls  and  passages  until  we  came  to  the 
rittersaal  again." 

"  Sigmund,"  said  I,  "  are  you  not  proud  to  belong  to 
these?"  and  I  pointed  to  the  dim  portraits  hanging  around. 

"  Yes,"  said  he  doubtfully.  "  Uncle  Bruno  is  always  tell- 
ing me  that  I  must  do  nothing  to  disgrace  their  name,  because 
I  shall  one  day  rule  their  lands;  but,"  he  added  with  more 
animation,  "do  you  not  see  all  these  likenesses?  These  are 
all  counts  of  Eothenfels,  who  have  been  heads  of  the  family. 
You  see  the  last  one  is  here — Graf  Bruno — my  uncle.  But 
in  another  room  there  are  a  great  many  more  portraits,  ladies 
and  children  and  young  men,  and  a  man  is  painting  a  like- 
ness of  me,  which  is  going  to  be  hung  up  there;  but  my  father 
is  not  there.     What  does  it  mean?  " 

1  was  silent.  I  knew  his  portrait  must  have  been  removed 
because  he  was  considered  to  be  living  in  dishonor — a  stain 
to  the  house,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  chivalrous  of  the 
whole  race;  but  this  I  could  not  tell  Sigmund.  It  was  begin- 
ning already,  the  trial,  the  "  test "  of  which  he  had  spoken 
to  me,  and  it  was  harder  in  reality  than  in  anticipation. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  stuck  up  there  where  he  has  no  place," 
Sigmund  went  on  sullenly.  "  And  I  should  like  to  cut  the 
hateful  picture  to  pieces  when  it  comes." 

With  this  he  ushered  me  into  Griifin  Ilildegarde's  boudoir 
again.  She  was  still  there,  and  a  tall,  stately,  stem-looking 
man  of  some  fifty  years  was  with  her. 

His  appearance  gave  me  a  strange  shock.  He  was  Eugen, 
older  and  without  any  of  his  artist  brightness;  Eugen's  grace 
turned  into  pride  and  stony  hauteur.  He  looked  as  if  ho 
could  be  sayage  upon  occasion;  a  nature  born  to  power  and 


330  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

nurtured  in  it.  Euggedly  upright,  but  narrow.  1  leamed 
him  by  heart  afterward,  and  found  that  every  act  of  his  was 
the  direct,  unsoftened  outcome  of  his  nature. 

This  was  Graf  Bruno;  this  was  the  proud,  intensely  feeling 
man  who  had  never  forgiven  the  stain  which  he  supposed 
his  brother  had  brought  upon  their  house;  this  was  he  who 
had  proposed  such  hard,  bald,  pitiless  terms  concerning  the 
parting  of  father  and  son — who  forbade  the  child  to  speak  of 
the  loved  one. 

"  Ha! "  said  he,  "  you  have  found  Sigmund,  mein  Fr'dU' 
lein?    Where  did  you  meet,  then?  " 

His  keen  eyes  swept  me  from  head  to  foot.  In  that,  at 
least,  Eugen  resembled  him;  my  lover's  glance  was  as  hawk- 
like as  this,  and  as  impenetrable. 

"In  the  music-room,"  said  Sigmund;  and  the  uncle's 
glance  left  me  and  fell  upon  the  boy. 

I  soon  read  that  story.  The  child  was  at  once  the  light 
of  his  eyes  and  the  bitterness  of  his  life.  As  for  Countess 
Hildegarde,  she  gazed  at  her  nephew  with  all  a  mother's  soul 
in  her  pathetic  eyes,  and  was  silent. 

"  Come  here,"  said  the  Graf,  seating  himself  and  drawing 
the  boy  to  him.     "  What  hast  thou  been  doing?  " 

There  was  no  fear  in  the  child's  demeanor — he  was  too 
thoroughly  a  child  of  their  own  race  to  know  fear — but  there 
was  no  love,  no  lighting  up  of  the  features,  no  glad  meeting 
of  the  eyes. 

"  I  was  with  ISTahrath  till  Aunt  Hildegarde  sent  for  him, 
and  then  I  went  to  practice." 

"  Practice  what?    Thy  riding  or  fencing?  " 

"  No;  my  violin." 

"Bah!  What  an  extraordinary  thing  it  is  that  this  lad 
has  no  taste  for  anything  but  fiddling,"  observed  the  uncle, 
half  aside. 

Grafin  Hildegarde  looked  sharply  and  apprehensively  up. 

Sigmund  shrunk  a  little  away  from  his  uncle,  not  timidly, 
but  with  some  distaste.  Words  were  upon  his  lips;  his  eyes 
flashed,  his  lips  parted;  then  he  checked  himself,  and  was 
silent. 

"Nun  dennl"  said  the  count.  "Wliat  hast  thou?  Out 
with  it! " 

"  Nothing  that  it  would  please  you  to  hear,  uncle;  there- 
fore I  will  not  say  it,"  was  the  composed  retort. 

The  grim-looking  man  laughed  a  grim  little  laugh,  as  if 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  831 

satisfied  with  the  audacity  of  the  boy,  and  his  grizzled  mus- 
tache swept  the  soft  cheek. 

"  I  ride  no  further  this  morning;  but  this  afternoon  I  sliall 
go  to  Mulhausen.     Wilt  thou  come  with  me?  " 

"  Yes,  uncle." 

Neither  willing  nor  unwilHng  was  the  tone,  and  the  answer 
appeared  to  dissatisfy  the  other,  who  said: 

"'Yes,  uncle' — what  does  that  mean?  Dost  thou  not 
wish  to  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!     I  would  as  soon  go  as  stay  at  home." 

"But  the  distance,  Bruno,"  here  interposed  the  countess 
in  a  low  tone.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  too  far.  He  is  not  too 
strong." 

"Distance?  Pooh!  Hildegarde,  I  wonder  at  you;  con- 
sidering what  stock  you  come  of,  you  should  be  superior  to 
such  nonsense!  Wert  thou  thinking  of  the  distance, 
Sigmund  ?  " 

"  Distance — no,"  said  he  indifferently. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  elder.  "  I  want  to  show  thee 
something." 

They  went  out  of  the  room  together.  Yes,  it  was  self- 
evident;  the  man  idolized  the  child.  Strange  mixture  of 
sternness  and  softness!  The  supposed  sin  of  the  father  was 
never  to  be  pardoned;  but  natural  affection  was  to  have  its 
way,  and  be  lavished  upon  the  son;  and  the  son  could  not 
return  it,  because  the  influence  of  the  banished  scapegrace 
was  too  strong — he  had  won  it  all  for  himself,  as  scapegraces 
have  the  habit  of  doing. 

Again  I  was  left  alone  with  the  countess,  sitting  upright 
over  her  embroidery.  A  dull  life  this  great  lady  led.  She 
cared  nothing  for  the  world's  gayeties,  and  she  had  neither 
chick  nor  child  to  be  ambitious  for.  Her  husband  was  polite 
enough  to  her;  but  she  knew  perfectly  well,  and  accepted  it 
as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  death  of  her  who  had  lived 
with  him  and  been  his  companion  for  twenty-five  years  would 
have  weighed  less  by  half  with  him  than  any  catastrophe  to 
that  mournful,  unenthusiastic  child,  who  had  not  been  two 
years  under  their  roof,  and  who  displayed  no  delight  in  the 
wealth  of  love  lavished  upon  him. 

She  knew  that  she  also  adored  the  child,  but  that  his  affec- 
tion was  hard  to  get.  She  dared  not  show  her  love  openly, 
or  in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  who  seemed  to  look  upon 
the  boy  as  his  exclusive  property,  and  was  as  jealous  as  a  tiger 


332  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

of  the  few  faint  testimonials  of  affection  manifested  "by  his 
darling.  A  dull  journey  to  Berlin  once  a  year,  an  occasional 
visitor,  the  society  of  her  director  and  that  of  her  husband — 
who  showed  how  much  at  home  with  her  he  felt  by  going  to 
sleep  whenever  he  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  her 
presence — a  little  interest  of  a  lofty,  distant  kind  in  her 
towns-people  of  the  poorer  sort,  an  occasional  call  upon  or 
from  some  distant  neighbor  of  a  rank  approaching  her  own; 
for  the  rest,  embroidery  in  the  newest  patterns  and  most 
elegant  style,  some  few  books,  chiefly  religious  and  polemical 
works — and  what  can  be  drearier  than  Eoman  Catholic 
polemics,  unless,  indeed,  Protestant  ones  eclipse  them? — a 
large  house,  vast  estates,  servants  who  never  raised  their 
voices  beyond  a  certain  tone;  the  envy  of  all  the  middle-class 
women,  the  fear  and  reverential  courtesies  of  the  poorer  ones 
— a  cheerful  existence,  and  one  which  accounted  for  some  of 
the  Avrinkles  which  so  plentifully  decked  her  brow. 

"  That  is  our  nephew,"  said  she;  "  my  husband's  heir." 

"  I  have  often  seen  him  before,"  said  I;  "  but  I  should 
have  thought  that  his  father  would  be  your  husband's  next 
heir." 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  look  she  darted  upon  me — the 
awful  glance  which  swept  over  me  scathingly,  ere  she  said  in 
icy  tones: 

'"  What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  seen — or  do  you  know — 
Graf  Eugen?" 

There  was  a  pause,  as  if  the  name  had  not  passed  her  lips 
for  so  long  that  now  she  had  difficulty  in  uttering  it, 

"  I  knew  him  as  Eugen  Courvoisier,"  said  I ;  but  the  other 
name  was  a  revelation  to  me,  and  told  me  that  he  was  also 
"  to  the  manner  born."  "  I  saw  him  two  days  ago,  and  I 
conversed  with  him,"  I  added. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  surveyed  me  with  a  hag- 
gard look.     I  met  her  glance  fully,  openly. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  anything  about  him?  "  I  asked. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  she,  striving  to  speak  frigidly;  but 
there  was  a  piteous  tremble  in  her  low  tones.     "  The  man  has 

dis What  am  I  saying?     It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  he 

is  not  on  terms  with  his  family." 

"  So  he  told  me,"  said  I,  struggling  on  my  own  part  to  keep 
back  the  burning  words  within  me. 

The  countess  looked  at  me — looked  again.  I  saw  now  that 
this  was  one  of  the  great  sorrows  of  her  sorrowful  life.     She 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK  333 

felt  that  to  be  consistent  she  ought  to  wave  aside  the  subject 
with  calm  contempt;  but  it  made  her  heart  bleed.  I  pitied 
her;  I  felt  an  odd  kind  of  affection  for  her  already.  The 
promise  I  had  given  to  Eugen  lay  hard  and  heavy  upon  me. 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  she  asked  at  last;  and  I  paused 
ere  I  answered,  trj'ing  to  tliink  what  I  could  make  of  this 
opportunity.  "Do  you  know  the  facts  of  the  case?"  she 
added. 

"  No;  he  said  he  would  write." 

"  Would  write!  "  she  echoed,  suspending  her  work  and  fi.\- 
ing  me  with  her  eyes.     "  Would  write — to  whom?  " 

"  To  me." 

^You  correspond  with  him?"  There  was  a  tremulous 
eagerness  in  her  manner. 

"  I  have  never  corresponded  with  him  yet,"  said  I,  "  but 
I  have  known  him  long,  and  loved  him  almost  from  the  first. 
The  other  day  I  promised — to — marry  him." 

"You?"  said  she;  "you  are  going  to  marry  Eugen!  Are 
you  " — her  eyes  said — "  are  you  good  enough  for  him?  " 
But  she  came  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  "  Tell  me,"  said  she; 
"  where  did  you  meet  him,  and  how?  " 

I  told  her  in  what  capacity  I  had  become  acquainted  with 
him,  and  she  listened  breathlessly.  Every  moment  I  felt  the 
prohibition  to  speak  heavier,  for  I  saw  that  the  Countess  von 
Kothenfels  would  have  been  only  too  delighted  to  hail  any 
idea,  any  suggestion,  which  should  allow  her  to  indulge  the 
love  that,  though  so  strong,  she  rigidly  repressed.  I  dare 
say  I  told  my  story  in  a  halting  kind  of  way;  it  was  difficult 
for  me,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  know  clearly  what 
to  say  and  what  to  leave  unsaid.  As  I  told  the  countess 
about  Eugen's  and  my  voyage  down  the  river,  a  sort  of  smile 
tried  to  struggle  out  upon  her  lips;  it  was  evidently  as  good 
as  a  romance  to  her.     I  finished,  saying: 

"  That  is  the  truth,  gnddige  Frau.  All  I  fear  is  that  I  am 
not  good  enough  for  him — shall  not  satisfy  him." 

"  My  child,"  said  she,  and  paused.  "  My  dear  child  " — 
she  took  both  my  hands,  and  her  lips  quivered — "  you  do  not 
know  how  I  feel  for  you.  I  can  feel  for  you  because  I  fear 
that  with  you  it  will  be  as  it  was  with  me.  Do  you  know 
any  of  the  circumstances  under  which  Eugen  von  Eothenfels 
left  his  friends?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  them  circumstantially.  I  know  he  was 
accused  of  something,  and — and — did  not — I  mean " 


834  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIH. 

"Could  not  deny  it,"  she  said.  "I  dare  not  take  thi 
responsibility  of  leaving  you  in  ignorance.  I  must  tell  yon 
all,  and  may  Our  Lady  give  me  eloquence!  " 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  the  story,  madame,  but  I  do  not 
think  any  eloquence  will  change  my  mind." 

"  He  always  had  a  manner  calculated  to  deceive  and 
charm,"  said  she;  "  always.  Well,  my  husband  is  his  half- 
brother.  I  was  their  cousin.  They  are  the  sons  of  different 
mothers,  and  my  husband  is  many  years  older  than  Eugen — 
eighteen  years  older.  He,  my  husband,  was  thirty  years  old 
when  he  succeeded  to  the  name  and  estates  of  his  father — ■ 
Eugen,  you  see,  was  just  twelve  years  old,  a  schoolboy.  Wg 
were  just  married.  It  is  a  very  long  time  ago — ach,  ja!  a 
very  long  time  ago!  We  played  the  part  of  parents  to  that 
boy.  We  were  childless,  and,  as  time  went  on,  we  lavished 
upon  him  all  the  love  which  we  should  have  bestowed  upon 
our  own  children,  had  we  been  happy  enough  to  have  any.  1 
do  not  think  anyone  was  ever  better  loved  than  he.  It  so  hap' 
pened  that  liis  own  inheritance  was  not  a  large  one;  that  made 
no  difference.  My  husband,  with  my  fullest  consent  and 
approbation,  had  every  intention  of  providing  for  him;  we 
had  enough  and  to  spare;  money  and  land  and  house  room  for 
half  a  dozen  families,  and  our  two  selves  alone  to  enjoy  it 
all.  He  always  seemed  fond  of  us.  I  suppose  it  was  his 
facile  manner,  which  could  take  the  appearance  of  an  interest 
and  affection  which  he  did  not  feel " 

"  No,  Frau  Griifin!     No,  indeed!  " 

"  Wait  till  you  have  heard  all,  my  poor  child.  Everyone 
loved  him.  How  proud  I  was  of  him!  Sometimes  I  think 
it  is  a  chastisement,  but  had  you  been  in  my  place  you  would 
have  been  proud,  too;  so  gallant,  so  handsome,  such  grace, 
and  such  charm!  He  was>  the  joy  of  my  life,"  she  said  in 
a  passionate  undertone.  "  He  went  by  the  name  of  a  worthy 
descendant  of  all  essential  things:  honor  and  loyalty  and 
bravery,  and  so  on.  They  used  to  call  him  Prinz  Eugen,  der 
edie  Bitter,  after  the  old  song.  He  was  wild  and  impatient 
of  control,  but  who  is  not?  I  hate  your  young  men  whose 
veins  mn  milk,  not  blood.  He  was  one  of  a  fiery,  passionate 
line.  At  the  universities  he  was  extravagant;  we  heard  all 
sorts  of  follies," 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  base — anything  underhand 
or  dishonorable? " 

"Nevep — oh,  never!    High  play.    He  was  Yerj  intimal« 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  335 

with  a  set  of  young  Englishmen,  and  the  play  was  dreadful, 
it  is  true;  he  betted,  too.  That  is  a  curse.  Play  and  horses, 
and  general  recklessness  and  extravagance,  but  no  wine  and 
no  women.  I  never  heard  that  he  had  the  least  affinity  for 
either  of  these  dissipations.  There  were  debts — I  suppose 
all  young  men  in  his  position  make  debts,"  said  the  countess 
placidly.  "  My  husband  made  debts  at  college,  and  I  am 
sure  my  brothers  did.  Then  he  left  college  and  lived  at 
home  a  while,  and  that  was  the  happiest  time  of  my  life. 
But  it  is  over. 

"  Then  he  entered  the  army — of  course.  His  family  inter- 
est procured  him  promotion.  lie  was  captain  in  a  fine  Uhlan 
regiment.     He  was  with  his  regiment  at  Berlin  and  Munich, 

and .     And  always  we  heard  the  same  tales — play,  and 

wild,  fast  living.     Music  always  had  a  hold  upon  him. 

"  In  the  midst  of  his  extravagance  he  was  sometimes  so 
simple.     I  remember  we  were  dreadfully  frightened   at  a 

rumor  that  he  had  got   entangled  with  Fraulein ,   a 

singer  of  great  beaut}''  at  the  Hof  oper  at .  I  got  my  hus- 
band to  let  me  write  about  it.  I  soon  had  an  answer  from 
Eugen.  How  he  laughed  at  me!  He  had  paid  a  lot  of  debts 
for  the  girl,  wliich  had  been  pressing  heavily  upon  her  since 
her  career  began;  now  he  said  he  trusted  she  would  get  along 
swimmingly;  he  was  going  to  her  benefit  that  night. 

"  But  when  he  was  at ,  and  when  he  was  about  six- 

and-twenty,  he  really  did  get  engaged  to  be  married.  He 
wrote  and  told  us  about  it.  That  was  the  first  bitter  blow. 
She  was  an  Italian  girl  of  respectable  but  by  no  means  noble 
family-— he  was  always  a  dreadful  radical  in  such  matters. 
She  was  a  governess  in  the  house  of  one  of  his  friends  in . 

"  We  did  everything  we  could  think  of  to  divert  him  from 
it.  It  was  useless.  He  married  her,  but  he  did  not  become 
less  extravagant.  She  did  not  help  him  to  become  steady, 
I  must  say.  She  liked  gayety  and  admiration,  and  he  liked 
her  to  be  worshiped.  He  indulged  her  frightfully.  He 
played — he  would  play  so  dreadfully. 

"  We  had  his  wife  over  to  see  us,  and  he  came  with  her. 
We  were  agreeably  surprised.  She  quite  won  our  hearts. 
She  was  very  beautiful  and  very  charming — had  rather  a 
pretty  voice,  though  nothing  much.  We  forgave  all  his  mis- 
conduct, and  my  husband  talked  to  him  and  implored  him 
to  amend.  He  said  he  would.  Mere  promises!  It  was  so 
easy  to  him  to  make  promises. 


S36  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  That  poor  young  wife!  Instead  of  pitying  him  for  hav- 
ing made  a  mesalliance,  we  know  now  that  it  was  she  who 
was  to  be  pitied  for  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  such  a 
black-hearted,  false  man." 

The  lady  paused.  The  recital  evidently  cost  her  some  pain 
and  some  emotion.     She  went  on: 

"  She   was   expecting    her    confinement.     They    returned 

to ,  where  we  also  had  a  house,  and  we  went  with  them. 

Vittoria  shortly  afterward  gave  birth  to  a  son.  That  was  in 
our  house.  My  husband  would  have  it  so.  That  son  was  to 
reconcile  all  and  make  everything  straight.  At  that  time 
Eugen  must  have  been  in  some  anxiety;  he  had  been  betting 
heavily  on  the  English  Derby.  We  did  not  know  that,  nor 
why  he  had  gone  to  England.  At  last  it  came  out  that  he 
was  simply  ruined.  My  husband  was  dreadfully  cut  up.  I 
was  very  unhappy — so  unhappy  that  I  was  ill  and  confined 
to  my  room. 

"  My  husband  left  town  for  a  few  days  to  come  over  to 
Rothenfels  on  business.  Eugen  was  scarcely  ever  in  the 
house.  I  thought  it  was  our  reproachful  faces  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  see.  Then  my  husband  came  back.  He  was 
more  cheerful.  He  had  been  thinking  things  over,  he  said. 
He  kissed  me,  and  told  me  to  cheer  up:  he  had  a  plan  for 
Eugen,  which,  he  believed,  would  set  all  right  again. 

"  In  that  very  moment  someone  had  asked  to  see  him.  It 
was  a  clerk  from  the  bank  with  a  check  which  they  had 
cashed  the  day  before.  Had  my  husband  signed  it?  I  saw 
him  look  at  it  for  a  moment.  Then  he  sent  the  man  away, 
saying  that  he  was  then  busy  and  would  communicate  with 
him.  Then  he  showed  me  the  check.  It  was  payable  to  the 
bearer,  and  across  the  back  was  written  '  Vittoria  von 
Eothenfels.' 

"  You  must  bear  in  mind  that  Eugen  was  living  in  his  own 
house,  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  My  husband  sent  the 
check  to  him,  with  a  brief  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  knew  any- 
thing about  it.  Then  he  went  out;  he  had  an  appointment, 
and  when  he  returned  he  found  a  letter  from  Eugen.  It  was 
not  long;  it  was  burned  into  my  heart,  and  I  have  never  for- 
gotten a  syllable  of  it.     It  was: 

*'  *  I  return  the  check.  I  am  guilty.  I  relieve  you  of  all 
further  responsibility  about  me.  It  is  evident  that  I  am  not 
fit  for  my  position.    I  leave  this  pla<3e  forever,  taking  the  boy 


THE  FIRST  riOim.  337 

with  me.  Vittoria  does  not  seem  to  care  about  having  him. 
Will  you  look  after  her?  Do  not  let  her  starve  in  punish- 
ment for  my  sin.     For  me — I  leave  you  forever. 

"  '  EUGEN.' 

"  That  was  the  letter.  Eif  mein  Gott!  Oh,  it  is  hideous, 
child,  to  find  that  those  in  whom  you  believed  so  intensely 
are  bad — rotten  to  the  core.  I  had  loved  Eugen,  he  had 
made  a  sunshine  in  my  not  very  cheerful  life.  His  coming 
was  a  joy  to  me,  his  going  away  a  sorrow.  It  made  every- 
thing so  much  blacker  when  the  truth  came  out.  Of  course 
the  matter  was  hushed  up. 

"  My  husband  took  immediate  steps  about  it.  Soon  after- 
ward we  came  here;  Vittoria  with  us.  Poor  girl!  Poor  girl! 
She  did  nothing  but  weep  and  wring  her  hands,  moan  and 
Jament  and  wonder  why  she  had  ever  been  born,  and  at  last 
she  died  of  decline — that  is  to  say,  they  called  it  decline,  but 
it  was  really  a  broken  heart.  That  is  the  story — a  black 
chronicle,  is  it  not?  You  know  about  Sigmund's  coming 
here.  My  husband  remembered  that  he  was  heir  to  our 
name,  and  we  were  in  a  measure  responsible  for  him.  Eugen 
had  taken  the  name  of  a  distant  family  connection  on  his 
mother's  side — she  had  French  blood  in  her  veins — Courvoi- 
sier.  Now  you  know  all,  my  child — he  is  not  good.  Do  not 
trust  him." 

I  was  silent.  My  heart  burned;  my  tongue  longed  to  utter 
ardent  words,  but  I  remembered  his  sad  smile  as  he  said, 
"  You  shrink  from  that,"  and  I  braced  myself  to  silence. 
The  thing  seemed  to  me  altogether  so  pitiable — and  yet — and 
yet,  I  had  sworn.  But  how  had  he  lived  out  these  five  ter- 
rible years? 

By  and  by  the  luncheon  bell  rang.  "We  all  met  once  more. 
I  felt  every  hour  more  like  one  in  a  dream  or  in  some  impos- 
sible old  romance.  That  piece  of  outward  deathlike  reserve, 
the  countess,  with  the  fire  within,  which  she  was  forever 
spending  her  energy  in  attempts  to  quench;  that  conglomera- 
tion of  ice,  pride,  roughness,  and  chivalr}^  the  Herr  Graf  him- 
self; the  thin,  wooden-looking  priest,  the  director  of  the 
Grafin;  that  lovely  picture  of  grace  and  bloom,  with  the  dash 
of  melancholy,  Sigmund;  certainly  it  was  the  strangest  com- 
pany in  which  I  had  ever  been  present.  The  countess  sent 
me  home  in  the  afternoon,  reminding  me  that  I  was  engaged 
to  dine  there  with  the  others  to-morrow.     I  managed  to  get 


338  ^HE  FTRST  YlOtW 

a  word  aside  witK  Sigrmind — ^to  Idss  him  and  tell  him  I 
should  come  to  see  him  again.  Then  I  left  them;  interested, 
inthralled,  fascinated  with  them  and  their  life,  and — more  in 
love  uith  Eugen  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"where  is  my  fathee?" 

"We  had  been  bidden  to  dine  at  the  schloss — Fran  Mitten- 
dorf,  Stella,  and  I.  In  due  time  the  doctor's  new  carriage 
was  called  out,  and  seated  in  it  we  were  driven  to  the  great 
castle.  With  a  renewed  joy  and  awe  I  looked  at  it  by  twi- 
light, with  the  dusk  of  sunset  veihng  its  woods  and  turning 
the  whole  mass  to  the  color  of  a  deep  earth-stain.  Eugen's 
home:  there  he  had  been  bom;  as  the  child  of  such  a  race 
and  in  its  traditions  he  had  been  nurtured  by  that  sad  lady 
whom  we  were  going  to  see.  I  at  least  knew  that  he  had 
acted,  and  was  now  acting,  up  to  the  very  standard  of  his  high 
calling.  The  place  had  lost  much  of  its  awfulness  for  me;  it 
had  become  even  friendly  and  lovely. 

The  dinner  was  necessarily  a  solemn  one.  I  was  looking 
out  for  Sigmund,  who,  however,  did  not  put  in  an  appearance. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  all  assembled  in  a  vast  salon 
which  the  numberless  wax-hghts  did  but  partially  and  in  the 
center  illuminate,  I  determined  to  make  an  effort  at  release 
from  this  seclusion,  and  asked  the  countess  (who  had 
motioned  me  to  a  seat  beside  her)  where  Sigmund  was. 

"  He  seemed  a  little  languid  and  not  inclined  to  come 
downstairs,"  said  she.  "  I  expect  he  is  in  the  music-rooms — ■ 
he  generally  finds  his  way  there." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  allow  me  to  go  and  see  him!  " 

"  Certainly,  my  child,"  said  she,  ringing;  and  presently  a 
servant  guided  me  to  the  door  of  the  music-rooms,  and  in 
answer  to  my  knock  I  was  bidden  Herein ! 

.  I  entered.  The  room  was  in  shadow;  but  a  deep  glowing 
fire  burned  in  a  great  cavernous,  stone  fireplace,  and  shone 
upon  huge  brass  andirons  on  either  side  of  the  hearth.  In  an 
easy-chair  sat  Brunken,  the  old  librarian,  and  his  white  hair 
and  beard  were  also  warmed  into  rosiness  by  the  fire-glow. 
At  his  feet  lay  Sigmimd,  who  had  apparently  been  listening 


THE  FIRST  YIOLIN.  339 

to  some  story  of  his  old  friend.  His  hands  were  clasped 
about  the  old  man's  knee,  his  face  upturned,  his  hair  pushed 
back. 

Both  turned  as  I  came  in,  and  Sigmund  sprung  up,  but  ere 
he  had  advanced  two  paces,  paused  and  stood  still,  as  if  over- 
come with  languor  or  weariness. 

"  Sigmund,  I  have  come  to  see  you,"  said  I,  coming  to  the 
fire  and  greeting  the  old  man,  who  welcomed  me  hospitably. 

I  took  Sigmund's  hand;  it  was  hot  and  dry.  I  kissed  him; 
lips  and  cheeks  were  burning  and  glowing  crimson.  I  swept 
the  hair  from  his  brow,  that  too  was  burning,  and  his  temples 
throbbed.  His  eyes  met  mine  with  a  strange,  misty  look. 
Saying  nothing,  I  seated  myself  in  a  low  chair  near  the  fire, 
and  drew  him  to  me.  He  nestled  up  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  if 
Eugen  could  see  us  he  would  be  almost  satisfied.  Sigmund 
did  not  say  anything.  He  merely  settled  his  head  upon  my 
breast,  gave  a  deep  sigh  as  if  of  relief,  and  closing  his  eyes, 
said: 

"  Now,  Brunken,  go  on!  '* 

"  As  I  was  saying,  mein  Leihling,  I  hope  to  prove  all  for- 
mer theorists  and  writers  upon  the  subject  to  have  been 
wrong " 

"  He's  talking  about  a  Magrepha,"  said  Sigmund,  still  not 
opening  his  eyes. 

"  A  Magrepha — what  may  that  be?  "  I  inquired. 

"Yes.  Some  people  say  it  was  a  real  full-blown  organ," 
explained  Sigmund  in  a  thick,  hesitating  voice,  "  and  some 
say  it  was  notliing  better  than  a  bagpipe — oh,  dear!  how  my 
head  does  ache — and  there  are  people  who  say  it  was  a  kettle- 
drum— nothing  more  nor  less;  and  Brunken  is  going  to  show 
that  not  one  of  them  knew  anything  about  it." 

"  I  hope  so,  at  least,"  said  Brunken  with  a  modest 
placidity. 

"  Oh,  indeed!  "  said  I,  glancing  a  little  timidly  into  the  far 
recesses  of  the  deep,  ghostly  room,  where  the  firelight  kept 
catching  the  sheen  of  metal,  the  yellow  whiteness  of  ivory 
keys  or  pipes,  or  the  polished  case  of  some  stringed  instru- 
ment. 

Strange,  grotesque  shapes  loomed  out  in  the  uncertain, 
flickering  light;  but  was  it  not  a  strange  and  haunted  cham- 
ber? Ever  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  breaths  of  air  blew  through 
it,  which  came  from  all  imaginable  kinds  of  graves,  and  were 
the  breaths  of  those  departed  ones  who  had  handled  the 


340  THE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

strange  collection,  and  who  wished  to  finger,  or  blow  into,  or 
beat  the  dumb,  unvibrating  things  once  more. 

Did  I  say  unvibrating?  I  was  wrong  then.  The  strings 
sometimes  quivered  to  sounds  that  set  them  trembling;  some- 
thing like  a  whispered  tone  I  have  heard  from  the  deep,  up- 
turned throats  of  great  brazen  trumpets — something  like  a 
distant  moan  floating  around  the  gilded  organ-pipes.  In 
after-days,  when  Friedhelm  Helfen  knew  this  room,  he  made 
a,  wonderful  fantasia  about  it,  in  which  all  the  dumb  instru- 
ments woke  up,  or  tried  to  wake  up  to  life  again,  for  the 
whole  place  impressed  him,  he  told  me,  as  nothing  that  he 
had  ever  known  before. 

Brunken  went  on  in  a  droning  tone,  giving  theories  of  his 
own  as  to  the  nature  of  the  Magrepha,  and  I,  with  my  arms 
around  Sigmund,  half-listened  to  the  sleepy  monotone  of  the 
good  old  visionary.  But  what  spoke  to  me  with  a  more 
potent  voice  was  the  soughing  and  wuthering  of  the  sorrowful 
wind  without,  vv^hich  verily  moaned  around  the  old  walls, 
and  sought  out  the  old  comers,  and  wailed,  and  plained,  and 
sobbed  in  a  way  that  was  enough  to  break  one's  heart. 

By  degrees  a  silence  settled  upon  us.  Brunken,  having 
satisfactorily  annihilated  his  enemies,  ceased  to  speak;  the 
fire  burned  lower;  Sigmund's  eyes  were  closed;  his  cheeks 
were  not  less  flushed  than  before,  nor  his  brow  less  hot,  and 
a  frown  contracted  it.  I  know  not  how  long  a  time  had 
passed,  but  I  had  no  wish  to  rise. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  someone  came  into  the  room.  I 
looked  up.  It  was  the  Grafin.  Brunken  rose  and  stood  to 
one  side,  bowing. 

I  could  not  get  up,  but  some  movement  of  mine,  perhaps, 
disturbed  the  heavy  and  feverish  slumber  of  the  child.  He 
started  wide-awake,  with  a  look  of  wild  terror,  and  gazed 
down  into  the  darkness,  crying  out: 

" Mein  Vater,  where  art  thou?" 

A  strange,  startled,  frightened  look  crossed  the  face  of  the 
countess  when  she  heard  the  words.  She  did  not  speak,  and 
I  said  some  soothing  words  to  Sigmund. 

But  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  very  ill.  It  was 
quite  unlike  his  usual  silent  courage  and  reticence  to  wring 
his  small  hands  and  with  ever-increasing  terror  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  my  soothings,  sobbing  out  in  tones  of  pain  and  in- 
sistence: 

"Father!  father!  where  art  thou?    I  want  iheci" 


TEE  FIBST  YIOLIK  341 

Then  he  began  to  cry  pitifully,  and  the  only  word  that  was 
heard  was  "  Father!  "  It  was  like  some  recurrent  wail  in  a 
piece  of  music,  which  warns  one  all  through  of  a  coming 
tragedy. 

"  Oh,  dear!  What  is  to  be  done?  Sigmund!  Was  ist 
denn  mit  dir,  mein  Engel?  "  said  the  poor  countess,  greatly 
distressed. 

"  He  is  ill,"  said  I.  "  I  think  he  has  taken  an  illness. 
Does  thy  head  ache,  Sigmund?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  does.  "Where  is  my  own  father?  My 
head  never  ached  when  I  was  with  my  father." 

"Mein  Gottl  mein  Gott!"  said  the  countess  in  a  low  tone. 
"  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  his  father." 

"  Forgotten!  "  echoed  I.  "  Frau  Grafin,  he  is  one  of  your- 
selves.    You  do  not  seem  to  forget." 

"  Herrgottl  "  she  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands.  "What 
can  be  the  matter  with  him?  What  must  I  say  to  Bruno? 
Sigmund,  darling,  what  hast  thou,  then?  What  ails 
thee?" 

"  I  want  my  father! "  he  repeated.  Nor  would  he  utter 
any  other  word.  The  one  idea,  long  dormant,  had  now  taken 
full  possession  of  him;  in  fever,  half  delirious,  out  of  the  full- 
ness of  his  heart  his  mouth  spake. 

"  Sigmund,  Liehchen,"  said  the  countess,  "  control  thyself. 
Thy  uncle  must  not  hear  thee  say  that  word." 

"  I  don't  want  my  uncle.  I  want  my  father! "  said  Sig- 
mund, looking  restlessly  round.  "  Oh,  wdiere  is  he?  I  have 
not  seen  him — it  is  so  long,  and  I  want  him.  I  love  him;  I 
do  love  my  father,  and  I  want  him." 

It  was  pitiful,  pathetic,  somewhat  tragic,  too.  The  poor 
countess  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  to  do  with  the  boy, 
whose  illness  frightened  her.  I  suggested  that  he  should  be 
put  to  bed  and  the  doctor  sent  for,  as  he  had  probably  taken 
some  complaint  which  would  declare  itself  in  a  few  days,  and 
might  be  merely  some  cliildish  disorder. 

The  countess  seized  my  suggestion  eagerly.  Sigmund  was 
taken  away.  I  saw  him  no  more  that  night.  Presently  we 
left  the  schloss  and  drove  home. 

I  found  a  letter  waiting  for  me  from  Eugen.  He  was  still 
at  Elberthal,  and  appeared  to  have  been  reproaching  himself 
for  having  accepted  my  "  sacrifice,"  as  he  called  it.  He  spoke 
of  Sigmund.  There  was  more,  too,  in  the  letter,  which  made 
me  both  glad  and  sad.     I  felt  life  spreading  before  me,  en- 


842  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

dowed  with  a  gravity,  a  largeness  of  aim,  and  a  dignity  of  pur- 
pose such  as  I  had  ijever  dreamed  of  before. 

It  seemed  that  for  me,  too,  there  was  work  to  do.  I  also 
had  a  love  for  whose  sake  to  endure.  This  made  me  feel 
grave.  Eugen's  low  spirits,  and  the  increased  bitterness  with 
which  he  spoke  of  things,  made  me  sad;  but  something  else 
made  me  glad.  Throughout  his  whole  letter  there  breathed 
a  passion,  a  warmth — ^restrained,  but  glowing  through  its 
bond  of  reticent  words — an  eagerness  which  he  told  me  that 
at  last 

"  As  I  loved,  loved  am  I." 

Even  after  that  sail  down  the  river  I  had  felt  a  half  mis- 
trust, now  all  doubts  were  removed.  He  loved  me.  He  had 
learned  it  in  all  its  truth  and  breadth  since  we  last  parted. 
He  talked  of  renunciation,  but  it  was  with  an  anguish  so  keen 
as  to  make  me  wince  for  him  who  felt  it.  If  he  tried  to 
renounce  me  now,  it  would  not  be  the  cold  laying  aside  of  a 
thing  for  which  he  did  not  care,  it  would  be  the  wrenching 
himself  away  from  his  heart's  desire.  I  triumphed  in  the 
knowledge,  and  this  was  what  made  me  glad. 

Almost  before  we  had  finished  breakfast  in  the  morning, 
there  came  a  thundering  of  wheels  up  to  the  door,  and  a 
shriek  of  excitement  from  Fran  Mittendorf,  who,  Morgeri' 
Jiauhe  on  her  head,  a  shapeless  old  morning-gown  clinging 
hideously  about  her  ample  figure,  rushed  to  the  window, 
looked  out,  and  announced  the  carriage  of  the  Frau  Grafin. 
^'  Aber!  What  can  she  want  at  this  early  hour?  "  she  specu- 
lated, coming  into  the  room  again  and  staring  at  us  both  with 
wide  open  eyes,  round  with  agitation  and  importance.  "  But 
I  dare  say  she  wishes  to  consult  me  upon  some  matter.  I 
wish  I  were  dressed  more  becomingly.  I  have  heard — that  is, 
I  know,  for  I  am  so  intimate  with  her — that  she  never  wears 
neglige.     I  wonder  if  I  should  have  time  to '* 

She  stopped  to  hold  out  her  hand  for  the  note  which  a 
servant  was  bringing  in;  but  her  face  fell  when  the  missive 
was  presented  to  me. 

^'LiEBE  Mai  [it  began]:  Will  you  come  and  help  me  in 
my  trouble?  Sigmund  is  very  ill.  Sometimes  he  is  deliri- 
ous. He  calls  for  you  often.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  find  that 
after  all  not  a  word  is  uttered  ^f  us,  but  only  of  Eugen  (bum 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  343 

this  when  you  have  read  it),  of  you,  and  of  'Karl,'  and 
*Friedhelm,'  and  one  or  two  other  names  wliich  I  do  not 
know.  I  fear  this  petition  will  sound  troublesome  to  you, 
who  were  certainly  not  made  for  trouble,  but  you  are  kind. 
I  saw  it  in  your  face.  I  grieve  too  much.  Truly  the  flesh  is 
fearfully  weak.  I  would  live  as  if  earth  had  no  joys  for  me — 
as  indeed  it  has  none — and  yet  that  does  not  prevent  my 
Buffering.  May  God  help  me!  Trusting  to  you. 
Your, 

"  HiLDEGAEDE  V.  KOTHENFELS." 

I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  this  summons.  In  a  few 
moments  I  was  in  the  carriage;  ere  long  I  was  at  the  schloss, 
was  met  by  Countess  Hildegarde,  looking  like  a  ghost  that 
had  been  keeping  a  strict  Lent,  and  was  at  last  by  Sigmund's 
bedside. 

He  was  tossing  feverishly  from  side  to  side,  murmuring  and 
muttering.  But  when  he  saw  me  he  was  still;  a  sweet,  frank 
smile  flitted  over  his  face — a  smile  wonderfully  like  that 
which  his  father  had  lately  bent  upon  me.  He  gave  a  little 
laugh,  saying: 

"Fraulein  May!  WillJcommen!  Have  you  brought  my 
father?  And  I  should  like  to  see  Friedhelm,  too.  You  and 
der  Vater  and  Friedel  used  to  sit  near  together  at  the  concert, 
don't  you  remember?  I  went  once,  and  you  sung.  That 
tall  black  man  beat  time,  and  my  father  never  stopped  look- 
ing at  you  and  listening — Friedel,  too.  I  will  ask  them  if 
they  remember." 

He  laughed  again  at  the  reminiscence,  and  took  my  hand, 
and  asked  me  if  I  remembered,  so  that  it  was  with  difnculty 
that  I  steadied  my  voice  and  kept  my  eyes  from  running  over 
as  I  answered  him.  Griifin  Hildegarde  beliind  wrung  her 
hands  and  turned  to  the  window.  He  did  not  advance  any 
reminiscence  of  what  had  happened  since  he  came  to  the 
schloss. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  our  Sigmund  was  very  ill.  A 
visitation  of  scarlet  fever,  of  the  worst  kind,  was  raging  in 
Lahnburg  and  in  the  hamlet  of  Eothenfels,  which  lay  about 
the  gates  of  the  schloss. 

Sigmund,  some  ten  days  before,  had  ridden  with  his  uncle, 
and  waited  on  his  pony  for  some  time  outside  a  row  of  cot- 
tages, while  the  count  visited  one  of  his  old  servants,  a  man 
who  had  become  an  octogenarian  in  the  service  of  his  family. 


34-1  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  upon  whom  Graf  Bruno  periodically  shed  the  light  of  his 
countenance. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  doubted  that  the  boy  had  taken  the 
infection  then  and  there,  and  the  doctor  did  not  conceal  that 
he  had  the  complaint  in  its  worst  form,  and  that  his  recovery 
admitted  of  the  gravest  doubts. 

A  short  time  convinced  me  that  I  must  not  again  leave  the 
child  till  the  illness  was  decided  in  one  way  or  another.  He 
was  mine  now,  and  I  felt  myself  in  the  place  of  Eugen,  as  I 
stood  beside  his  bed  and  told  him  the  hard  truth — that  his 
father  was  not  there,  nor  Friedhelm,  nor  Karl,  for  whom  he 
also  asked,  but  only  I. 

The  day  passed  on.  A  certain  conviction  was  growing 
every  hour  stronger  with  me.  An  incident  at  last  decided  it, 
I  had  scarcely  left  Sigmund's  side  for  eight  or  nine  hours,  but 
I  had  seen  nothing  of  the  count,  nor  heard  his  voice,  nor  had 
any  mention  been  made  of  him,  and  remembering  how  he 
adored  the  boy,  I  was  surprised. 

At  last  Grafin  Hildegarde,  after  a  brief  absence,  came  into 
the  room,  and  with  a  white  face  and  parted  lips,  said  to  me  in 
a  half-whisper. 

''  Liede  Miss  Wedderburn,  will  you  do  something  for  me? 
Will  you  speak  to  my  husband  ?  " 

"  To  your  husband!  "  I  ejaculated. 

She  bowed. 

"  He  longs  to  see  Sigmund,  but  dare  not  come.  For  me, 
I  have  hardly  dared  to  go  near  him  since  the  little  one  began 
to  be  ill.  He  believes  that  Sigmund  will  die,  and  that  he  will 
be  his  murderer,  having  taken  him  out  that  day.  I  have 
often  spoken  to  him  about  making  der  Arme  ride  too  far,  and 
now  the  sight  of  me  reminds  Mm  of  it;  he  cannot 
endure  to  look  at  me.  Heaven  help  me!  Why  was  I  ever 
bom?  " 

She  turned  away  without  tears — tears  were  not  in  her  line 
— and  I  went,  much  against  my  will,  to  find  the  Graf. 

He  was  in  his  study.  Was  that  the  same  man,  I  wondered, 
whom  I  had  seen  the  very  day  before,  so  strong,  and  full  of 
pride  and  life?  He  raised  a  haggard,  white,  and  ghastly  face 
to  me,  which  had  aged  and  fallen  in  unspeakably.  He  made 
an  effort,  and  rose  with  politeness  as  I  came  in. 

^'  Mein  Frdulein,  you  are  loading  us  with  obhgations.  It 
is  quite  unheard  of." 

But  no  thanks  were  implied  in  the  tone — only  bitternesSi 


THE  FIRST  VIOLim  345 

He  was  angry  that  I  should  be  in  the  place  he  dared  not 
come  to. 

If  I  had  not  been  raised  by  one  supreme  fear  above  all 
smaller  ones,  I  should  have  been  afraid  of  this  haggard,  eager- 
looking  old  man — for  he  did  look  very  old  in  his  anguish.  I 
could  see  the  rage  of  jealousy  with  which  he  regarded  me, 
and  I  am  not  naturally  fond  of  encountering  an  old  wolf  who 
has  starved. 

But  I  used  my  utmost  effort  to  prevail  upon  him  to  visit 
his  nephew,  and  at  last  succeeded.  I  piloted  him  to  Sig- 
mund's  room;  led  him  to  the  boy's  bedside.  The  sick  cliild's 
eyes  were  closed,  but  he  presently  opened  them.  The  uncle 
was  stooping  over  him,  his  rugged  face  all  working  with  emo- 
tion, and  his  voice  broken  as  he  murmured: 

^'  Ach  mein  Liebling!  art  thou  then  so  ill?" 

With  a  kind  of  shuddering  cry,  the  boy  pushed  him  away 
with  both  hands,  crying: 

"  Go  away!  I  want  my  father — my  father,  my  father,  I 
say!  Where  is  he?  Why  do  you  not  fetch  him?  You  are  a 
bad  man,  and  you  hate  him." 

Then  I  was  frightened.  The  count  recoiled;  his  face 
turned  deathly  white — livid;  his  fist  clinched.  He  glared 
down  upon  the  now  unrecognizing  young  face  and  stuttered 
forth  something,  paused,  then  said  in  a  low,  distinct  voice, 
which  shook  me  from  head  to  foot: 

"  So!  Better  he  should  die.  The  brood  is  worthy  the 
nest  it  sprung  from.  Where  is  our  blood,  that  he  whines 
after  that  hound — that  hound  ?  " 

With  which,  and  with  a  fell  look  around,  he  departed,  leav- 
ing Sigmund  oblivious  of  all  that  had  passed,  utterly  indif- 
ferent and  unconscious,  and  me  sliivering  with  fear  at  the 
outburst  I  had  seen. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  charge  was  worse.  I  left  him 
for  a  few  moments,  and  seeking  out  the  countess,  spoke  my 
mind. 

"  Frau  Griifin,  Eugen  must  be  sent  for.  I  fear  that  Sig- 
mund is  going  to  die,  and  I  dare  not  let  him  die  without  send- 
ing for  his  fatlier." 

"  I  dare  not!  "  said  the  countess. 

She  had  met  her  husband,  and  was  flung,  unnerved,  upon 
a  couch,  her  hand  over  her  heart. 

"  But  I  dare,  and  I  must  do  it!  "  said  I,  secretly  wondering 
at  myself.     "  I  shall  telegraph  for  him." 


846  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  If  my  husband  knew!  "  she  breathed. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  I.  "  Is  the  poor  child  to  die 
among  people  who  profess  to  love  him,  with  the  one  wish 
ungratified  which  he  has  been  repeating  ever  since  he  began 
to  be  ill?  I  do  not  understand  such  love;  I  call  it  horrible 
inhumanity." 

"For  Eugen  to  enter  this  house  again!"  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

"  I  would  to  God  that  there  were  any  other  head  as  noble 
under  its  roof! "  was  my  magniloquent  and  thoroughly  ear- 
nest inspiration.  "  Well,  gnddige  Frau,  will  you  arrange  this 
matter,  or  shall  I?  " 

"  I  dare  not,"  she  moaned,  half  distracted;  "  I  dare  not — 
but  I  will  do  nothing  to  prevent  you.  Use  the  whole  house- 
hold; they  are  at  your  command." 

I  lost  not  an  instant  in  writing  out  a  telegram  and  dis- 
patching it  by  a  man  on  horseback  to  Lahnburg.  I  sum- 
moned Eugen  briefly; 

"  Sigmund  is  ill.     I  am  here.     Come  to  us." 

I  saw  the  man  depart,  and  then  I  went  and  told  the 
countess  what  I  had  done.  She  turned,  if  possible,  a  shade 
paler,  then  said: 

"  I  am  not  responsible  for  it." 

Then  I  left  the  poor  pale  lady  to  still  her  beating  heart  and 
kill  her  deadly  apprehensions  in  the  embroidery  of  the  lily  of 
the  field  and  the  modest  violet. 

No  change  in  the  child's  condition.  A  lethargy  had  fallen 
upon  him.  That  awful  stupor,  with  the  dark,  flushed  cheek 
and  heavy  breath,  was  to  me  more  ominous  than  the  restless- 
ness of  fever. 

I  sat  down  and  calculated.  My  telegram  might  be  in 
Eugen's  hand  in  the  course  of  an  hour. 

When  could  he  be  here?  Was  it  possible  that  he  might 
arrive  this  night?  I  obtained  the  German  equivalent  for 
Bradshaw,  and  studied  it  till  I  thought  I  had  made  out  that, 
supposing  Eugen  to  receive  the  telegram  in  the  shortest  pos- 
sible time,  he  might  be  here  by  half  past  eleven  that  night. 
It  was  now  five  in  the  afternoon.  Six  hours  and  a  half — and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  his  non-arrival  might  tell  me  he  could 
not  be  here  before  the  morrow. 

I  sat  still,  and  now  that  the  deed  was  done,  gave  myself  up, 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  347 

with  my  usual  enlightenment  and  discretion,  to  fears  and 
apprehensions.  The  terrible  look  and  tone  of  Graf  von 
Bothenfels  returned  to  my  mind  in  full  force.  Clearly  it 
was  just  the  most  dangerous  thing  in  the  world  for  Eugen  to 
do — to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  present  time.  But  an- 
other glance  at  Sigmund  somewhat  reassured  me.  In 
wondering  whether  girl  had  ever  before  been  placed  in  such 
a  bizarre  situation  as  mine,  darkness  overtook  me. 

Sigmund  moved  restlessly  and  moaned,  stretching  out  Httle 
hot  hands,  and  saying  "  Father! "  I  caught  those  hands  to 
my  lips,  and  knew  that  I  had  done  right. 


CHAPTER  V. 

VINDICATED. 

It  was  a  wild  night.  Driving  clouds  kept  hiding  and  re- 
vealing the  stormy-looking  moon.  I  was  out  of  doors.  I 
could  not  remain  in  the  house;  it  had  felt  too  small  for  me, 
but  now  nature  felt  too  large.  I  dimly  saw  the  huge  pile  of 
the  schloss  defined  against  the  gray  light;  sometimes,  when 
the  moon  unveiled  herself,  it  started  out  clear,  and  black,  and 
grim.  I  saw  a  light  in  a  corner  window — that  was  Sigmund's 
room;  and  another  in  a  room  below — that  was  the  Graf's 
study,  and  there  the  terrible  man  sat.  I  heard  the  wind 
moan  among  the  trees,  heard  the  great  dogs  baying  from  the 
kennels;  from  an  open  window  came  rich,  low,  mellow  sounds. 
Old  Brunken  was  in  the  music-room,  playing  to  himself  upon 
the  violoncello.  That  was  a  movement  from  the  "  Grand 
Septuor  " — the  second  movement,  which  is,  if  one  may  use 
such  an  expression,  painfully  beautiful.  I  bethought  myself 
of  the  woods  which  lay  hidden  from  me,  the  vast  avenues,  the 
lonely  tanks,  the  grotesque  statues,  and  tliat  terrible  figure 
with  its  aiTQs  cast  upward,  at  the  end  of  the  long  walk,  and 
I  shivered  faintly. 

I  was  some  short  distance  down  the  principal  avenue,  and 
dared  not  go  any  further.  A  sudden  dread  of  the  loneliness 
and  the  night-voices  came  upon  me;  my  heart  beating  thickly, 
I  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house.  I  would  try  to  comfort 
yoor  Countess  liildegarde  in  her  watching  and  her  fears. 

But  there  is  a  step  near  me.    Someone  comes  up  the  ave- 


348  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

nue,  with  foot  that  knows  its  windings,  its  turns  and  twists, 
its  ups  and  downs. 

"  Eugen!  "  I  said  tremulously. 

A  sudden  pause — a  stop;  then  he  said  with  a  kind  of  laugh: 

"  Witchcraft — Zauberei !  "  and  was  going  on. 

But  now  I  knew  his  whereabouts,  and  coming  up  to  him, 
touched  his  arm. 

"  This,  however,  is  reality! "  he  exclaimed,  infolding  me 
and  kissing  me  as  he  hurried  on.     "  May,  how  is  he  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same,"  said  I,  clinging  to  him.  "  Oh,  thank 
Heaven  that  you  are  come! " 

"  I  drove  to  the  gates,  and  sent  the  fellow  away.  But  what 
art  thou  doing  alone  at  the  Ghost's  Comer  on  a  stormy 
night?" 

We  were  still  walking  fast  toward  the  schloss.  My  heart 
was  beating  fast,  half  with  fear  of  what  was  impending,  half 
with  intensity  of  joy  at  hearing  his  voice  again,  and  knowing 
what  that  last  letter  had  told  me. 

As  we  emerged  upon  the  great  terrace  before  the  house 
Eugen  made  one  (the  only  one)  momentary  pause,  pressed  my 
arm,  and  bit  his  lips.  I  knew  the  meaning  of  it  all.  Then 
we  passed  quickly  on.  We  met  no  one  in  the  great  stone 
hall — no  one  on  the  stairway  or  along  the  passages — straight 
he  held  his  way,  and  I  with  him. 

We  entered  the  room.  Eugen's  eyes  leaped  swiftly  to  his 
child's  face.  I  saw  him  pass  his  hand  over  his  mouth.  I 
withdrew  my  hand  from  his  arm  and  stood  aside,  feeling  a 
tremulous  thankfulness  that  he  was  here,  and  that  that  rest- 
less plaining  would  at  last  be  hushed  in  satisfaction. 

A  delusion!  The  face  over  which  my  lover  bent  did  not 
brighten,  nor  the  eyes  recognize  him.  The  child  did  not 
know  the  father  for  whom  he  had  yearned  out  his  little 
heart — he  did  not  hear  the  half -frantic  words  spoken  by  that 
father  as  he  flung  himself  upon  him,  kissing  him,  beseeching 
him,  conjuring  him  with  every  foolish  word  of  fondness  that 
he  could  think  of,  to  speak,  answer,  look  up  once  again. 

Then  fear,  terror  overcame  the  man — for  the  first  time  I 
saw  him  look  pale  with  apprehension. 

"  Not  this  cup — not  this!  "  muttered  he.  "  Oott  im  Him- 
mell  anything  short  of  this — I  will  give  him  up — ^leave  him — 
anything — only  let  him  live!  " 

He  had  flung  himself,  unnerved,  trembling,  upon  a  chair 
by  the  bedside — his  face  buried  in  his  hands.    I  saw  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  349 

sweat  stand  upon  his  brow — I  could  do  nothing  to  help — 
nothing  but  wish  despairingly  that  some  blessed  miracle 
would  reverse  the  condition  of  the  child  and  me — lay  me  low 
in  death  upon  that  bed — place  him  safe  and  sound  in  Ms 
father's  arms. 

Is  it  not  hard,  you  father  of  many  children,  to  lose  one  of 
them?  Do  you  not  grudge  Death  his  prize?  But  this  man 
had  but  the  one;  the  love  between  them  was  such  a  love  as 
one  meets  perhaps  once  in  a  lifetime.  The  child's  life  had 
been  a  mourning  to  him,  the  father's  a  burden,  ever  since 
they  had  parted. 

I  felt  it  strange  that  I  should  be  trying  to  comfort  him, 
and  yet  it  was  so;  it  was  his  brow  that  leaned  on  my  shoulder; 
it  was  he  who  was  faint  with  anguish,  so  that  he  could  scarce 
see  or  speak — his  hand  that  was  cold  and  nerveless.  It  was  I 
who  said: 

"  Do  not  despair,  I  hope  still." 

"  If  he  is  dying,"  said  Eugen,  "  he  shall  die  in  my  arms." 

With  which,  as  if  the  idea  were  a  dreary  kind  of  comfort, 
he  started  up,  folded  Sigmund  in  a  shawl,  and  lifted  him  out 
of  bed,  infolding  him  in  his  arms,  and  pillowing  his  head 
upon  his  breast. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment,  yet,  as  I  clung  to  his  arm,  and 
with  him  looked  into  our  darling's  face,  I  felt  that  Von  Fran- 
cius'  words,  spoken  long  ago  to  my  sister,  contained  a  deep 
truth.  This  Joy,  so  like  a  sorrow — would  I  have  parted  with 
it?     A  thousand  times,  no! 

Whether  the  motion  and  movement  roused  him,  or  whether 
that  were  the  crisis  of  some  change,  I  knew  not.  Bigmund's 
eyes  opened.  He  bent  them  upon  the  face  above  him,  and 
after  a  pause  of  reflection  said,  in  a  voice  whose  utter  satis- 
faction passed  anything  I  had  ever  heard:  "  My  own  father!  " 
released  a  pair  of  little  wasted  arms  from  his  covering,  and 
clasped  them  round  Eugen's  neck,  putting  his  face  close  to 
his,  and  kissing  him  as  if  no  number  of  kisses  could  ever 
satisfy  him. 

Upon  this  scene,  as  Eugen  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
his  head  bent  down,  a  smile  upon  his  face  which  no  ultimate 
griefs  could  for  the  moment  quench,  there  entered  the 
countess. 

Her  greeting  after  six  years  of  absence,  separation,  belief  in 
his  dishonesty,  was  a  strange  one.  She  came  quickly  for- 
ward, laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said: 


350  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Eugen,  it  is  dreadfully  infectious!  Don't  kiss  the  child 
in  that  way,  or  you  will  take  the  fever  and  be  laid  up,  too." 

He  looked  up,  and  at  his  look  a  shock  passed  across  her 
face;  with  pallid  cheeks  and  parted  lips  she  gazed  at  him, 
speechless. 

His  mind,  too,  seemed  to  bridge  the  gulf — it  was  in  a 
strange  tone  that  he  answered: 

"  Ah,  Hildegarde!  What  does  it  matter  what  becomes  of 
me?     Leave  me  this!  " 

"  No,  not  that,  Eugen,"  said  I,  going  up  to  him,  and  I  sup- 
pose something  in  my  eyes  moved  him,  for  he  gave  the  child 
into  my  arms  in  silence. 

Tlie  countess  had  stood  looking  at  him.  She  strove  for 
silence;  sought  tremulously  after  coldness,  but  in  vain. 

"  Eugen "     She  came  nearer,  and  looked  more  closely 

at  him.  ''  Herrgott!  how  you  are  altered!  What  a  meeting! 
I — can  it  be  six  years  ago — and  now — oh!  "  Her  voice  broke 
into  a  very  wail.     "  We  loved  you — why  did  you  deceive  us?  " 

My  heart  stood  still.  Would  he  stand  this  test?  It  was 
the  hardest  he  had  had.  Grafin  Hildegarde  had  been — was 
dear  to  him.  That  he  was  dear  to  her,  intensely  dear,  that 
love  for  him  was  intwined  about  her  very  heart-strings,  stood 
confessed  now.  "Why  did  you  deceive  us?"  It  sounded 
more  like,  "  Tell  us  we  may  trust  you;  make  us  happy  again!  " 
One  word  from  him,  and  the  poor  sad  lady  would  have  ban- 
ished from  her  heart  the  long-staying,  unwelcome  guest — 
belief  in  his  falseness — and  closed  it  away  from  her  forever. 

He  was  spared  the  dreadful  necessity  of  answering  her.  A 
timid  summons  from  her  maid  at  the  door  told  her  the  count 
wanted  to  speak  to  her,  and  she  left  us  quickly. 

Sigmund  did  not  die;  he  recovered,  and  lives  now.  But 
with  that  I  am  not  at  present  concerned. 

It  was  the  afternoon  following  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
night.  I  had  left  Eugen  watching  beside  Sigmund,  who  was 
sleeping,  his  hand  jealously  holding  two  of  his  father's  fingers. 

I  intended  to  call  at  Frau  Mittendorf's  door  to  say  that  I 
could  not  yet  return  there,  and  when  I  came  back,  said 
Eugen,  he  would  have  something  to  tell  me;  he  was  going  to 
speak  with  his  brother — to  tell  him  that  we  should  be 
married,  "  and  to  speak  about  Sigmund,"  he  added  decisively. 
"  I  will  not  risk  such  a  thing  as  this  again.  If  you  had  not 
been  here  he  might  have  died  without  my  knowing  it.     I  feel 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  351 

myself  absolved  from  all  obligation  to  let  him  remain.  My 
child's  happiness  shall  not  be  further  sacrificed." 

With  this  understanding  I  left  him.  I  went  toward  the 
countess'  room,  to  speak  to  her,  and  tell  her  of  Sigmund  be- 
fore I  went  out.  I  heard  voices  ere  I  entered  the  room,  and 
when  I  entered  it  I  stood  still,  and  a  sickly  apprehension 
clutched  my  very  heart.  There  stood  my  evil  genius — the 
loser  Geist  of  my  lover's  fate — Anna  Sartorius.  And  the 
count  and  countess  were  present,  apparently  waiting  for  her 
to  begin  to  speak. 

"  You  are  here,"  said  the  Grafin  to  me.  "  I  was  just  about 
to  send  for  you.     This  lady  says  she  knows  you." 

"  She  does,"  said  I  hesitatingly. 

Anna  looked  at  me.  There  was  gravity  in  her  face,  and 
the  usual  cynical  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  said  she.  "  You  will  be 
still  more  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  journeyed  all  the  way 
from  Elberthal  to  Lahnburg  on  your  account,  and  for  your 
benefit." 

I  did  not  believe  her,  and  composing  myself  as  well  as  I 
could  sat  down.  After  all,  what  could  she  do  to  harm  me? 
She  could  not  rob  me  of  Eugen's  heart,  and  she  had  already 
done  her  worst  against  him  and  his  fair  name. 

Anna  had  a  strong  will;  she  exerted  it.  Graf  Bruno  was 
looking  in  some  surprise  at  the  unexpected  guest;  the  count- 
ess sat  rigidly  upright,  with  a  puzzled  look,  as  if  at  the  sight 
of  Anna  she  recalled  some  far-past  scene.  Anna  compelled 
their  attention;  she  turned  to  me,  saying: 

"  Please  remain  here.  Miss  Wedderbum.  What  I  have  to 
say  concerns  you  as  much  as  anyone  here.  You  wonder  who 
I  am,  and  what  business  I  have  to  intrude  myself  upon  you," 
she  added  to  the  others. 

"  I  confess "  began  the  countess,  and  Anna  went  on: 

"  You,  gnddige  Frau,  have  spoken  to  me  before,  and  I  to 
you.  I  see  you  remember,  or  feel  you  ought  to  remember 
me.  I  will  recall  the  occasion  of  our  meeting  to  your  mind. 
You  once  called  at  my  father's  house — he  was  a  music  teacher 
— to  ask  about  lessons  for  some  friend  or  protegee  of  yours. 
My  father  was  engaged  at  the  moment,  and  I  invited  you  into 
my  sitting  room  and  endeavored  to  begin  a  conversation  with 
you.  You  were  very  distant  and  very  proud,  scarcely  deign- 
ing to  answer  me.  When  my  father  came  into  the  room,  I 
left  it.     But  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  your  treatment  of 


352  TEE  FIRST  VIOLm. 

me.  You  little  knew  from  your  shut-up,  cossue  existence 
among  the  lofty  ones  of  the  earth,  what  influence  even  such 
insignificant  persons  as  I  might  have  upon  your  lot.  At  the 
time  I  was  the  intimate  friend  of,  and  in  close  correspondence 
with,  a  person  who  afterward  became  one  of  your  family. 
Her  name  was  Vittoria  Leopardi,  and  she  married  your 
brother-in-law,  Graf  Eugen." 

The  plain-spoken,  plain-looking  woman  had  her  way.  She 
had  the  same  power  as  that  wliich  shone  in  the  "  glittering 
eye  "  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  Whether  we  liked  or  not  we 
gave  her  our  attention.  All  were  listening  now,  and  we  lis- 
tened to  the  end. 

"  Vittoria  Leopardi  was  the  Italian  governess  at  General 

von 's.     At  one  time  she  had  several  music  lessons  from 

my  father.  That  was  how  I  became  acquainted  with  her. 
She  was  very  beavitiful — almost  as  beautiful  as  you.  Miss 
Wedderbum,  and  I,  dull  and  plain  myself,  have  a  keen  appre- 
ciation of  beauty  and  of  the  gentleness  which  does  not  always 
accompany  it.  When  I  first  knew  her  she  was  lonely  and 
strange,  and  I  tried  to  befriend  her.  I  soon  began  to  learn 
what  a  singular  mixture  of  sordid  worldliness  and  vacant 
weak-mindedness  dwelt  beliind  her  fair  face.  She  wrote  to 
me  often,  for  she  was  one  of  the  persons  who  must  have  some- 
one to  whom  to  relate  their  '  triumphs '  and  conquests,  and 
I  suppose  I  was  the  only  person  she  could  get  to  listen  to  her. 

"  At  that  time — the  time  you  called  at  our  house,  gnddige 
Frau — her  epistles  were  decidedly  tedious.  What  sense  she 
had — there  was  never  too  much  of  it — was  completely 
eclipsed.  At  last  came  the  announcement  that  her  noble  and 
gallant  Uhlan  had  proposed  and  been  accepted — naturally. 
She  told  me  what  he  was,  and  his  possessions  and  prospects; 
his  chief  merit  in  her  eyes  appeared  to  me  that  he  would  let 
her  do  anything  she  liked,  and  release  her  from  the  drudgery 
of  teaching,  for  which  she  never  had  the  least  affinity.  She 
hated  children.  She  never  on  any  occasion  hinted  that  she 
loved  him  very  much. 

"  In  due  time  the  marriage,  as  you  know,  came  off.  She 
almost  dropped  me  then,  but  never  completely  so;  I  suppose 
she  had  that  instinct  which  stupid  people  often  have  as  to 
the  sort  of  people  who  may  be  of  use  to  them  some  time.  I 
received  no  invitations  to  her  house.  She  used  awkwardly 
to  apologize  for  the  negligence  sometimes,  and  say  she  was 
so  busy,  and  it  would  be  no  comjjiiment  to  me  to  ask  me  to 


THE  FIRST  VIOLm.  353 

meet  all  those  stupid  people  of  whom  the  house  was  always 
full. 

"  That  did  not  trouble  me  much,  though  I  loved  her  none 
the  better  for  it.  She  had  become  more  a  study  to  me  now 
than  anything  I  really  cared  for.  Occasionally  I  used  to  go 
and  see  her,  in  the  morning,  before  she  had  left  her  room; 
and  once,  and  once  only,  I  met  her  husband  in  the  corridor. 
He  was  hastening  away  to  his  duty,  and  scarcely  saw  me  as 
he  hurried  past.  Of  course  I  knew  him  by  sight  as  well  as 
possible.  Who  did  not?  Occasionally  she  came  to  me  tc 
recount  her  triumphs  and  make  me  jealous.  She  did  not 
wish  to  reign  supreme  in  her  husband's  heart;  she  wished 

idle  men  to  pay  her  compliments.     Everybody  in knew 

of  the  extravagance  of  that  household,  and  the  reckless,  neck- 
or-nothing  habits  of  its  master.  People  were  indignant  with 
him  that  he  did  not  reform.  I  say  it  would  have  been  easier 
for  him  to  find  his  way  alone  up  the  Matterhorn  in  the  dark 
than  to  reform — after  his  marriage. 

"  There  had  been  hope  for  him  before — there  was  none 
afterward.  A  pretty  inducement  to  reform  she  offered  him! 
I  knew  that  woman  through  and  through,  and  I  tell  you  that 
there  never  lived  a  more  selfish,  feeble,  vain,  and  miserable 
thing.  All  was  self — self — self.  When  she  was  mated  to 
a  man  who  never  did  think  of  self — whose  one  joy  was  to  be 
giving,  whose  generosity  was  no  less  a  byword  than  his  reck- 
lessness, who  was  delighted  if  she  expressed  a  wish,  and  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  gratify  it;  the  more  eagerly  the 
more  unreasonable  it  was — m£s  amis,  I  think  it  is  easy  to 
guess  the  end — the  end  was  ruin.  I  watched  it  coming  on, 
and  I  thought  of  you,  Frau  Grafin.  Vittoria  was  expecting  her 
confinement  in  the  course  of  a  few  months.  I  never  heard 
her  express  a  hope  as  to  the  coming  child,  never  a  word  of 
joy,  never  a  thought  as  to  the  wider  cares  which  a  short  time 
would  bring  to  her.  She  did  say  often,  with  a  sigh,  that 
women  with  young  children  were  so  tied;  they  could  not  (h» 
this  and  they  could  not  do  that.  She  was  in  great  excitement 
when  she  was  invited  to  come  here;  in  great  triumph  when 
she  returned. 

"  Eugen,  she  said,  was  a  fool  not  to  conciliate  his  brother 
and  that  doting  old  saint  (her  words,  gnddige  Frau,  not  mine) 
more  than  he  did.  It  was  evident  that  they  would  do  any- 
thing for  him  if  he  only  flattered  them,  but  he  was  so  insanely 
downright — she  called  it  stupid,  she  said.     The  idea  of  miss- 


854  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

ing  such  advantages  when  a  few  words  of  common  politeness 
would  have  secured  them.  I  may  add  that  what  she  called 
*  common  politeness '  was  just  the  same  thing  that  I  called 
smooth  hypocrisy. 

"  Very  shortly  after  this  her  child  was  bom.  I  did  not  see 
her  then.  Her  husband  lost  all  his  money  on  a  race  and 
came  to  smash,  as  you  English  say.  She  wrote  to  me.  She 
was  in  absolute  need  of  money,  she  said;  Eugen  had  not  been 
able  to  give  her  any.  He  had  said  they  must  retrench.  Ee- 
trench!  Was  that  what  she  married  him  for?  There  was 
a  set  of  turquoises  that  she  must  have,  or  another  woman 
would  get  them,  and  then  she  would  die.  And  her  milliner, 
a  most  unreasonable  woman,  had  sent  word  that  she  must 
be  paid. 

"  So  she  was  grumbling  in  a  letter  which  I  received  one 
afternoon,  and  the  next  I  was  frightfully  startled  to  see  her- 
self. She  came  in  and  said  smilingly  that  she  was  going  to 
ask  a  favor  of  me.  Would  I  take  her  cab  on  to  the  bank 
and  get  a  check  cashed  for  her?  She  did  not  want  to  go 
there  herself.  And  then  she  explained  how  her  brother-in- 
law  had  given  her  a  check  for  a  thousand  thalers — ^was  it  not 
kind  of  him?  It  really  did  not  enter  my  head  at  the  moment 
to  think  there  was  anything  wrong  about  the  check.  She 
had  indorsed  it,  and  I  took  it,  received  the  money  for  it,  and 
brought  it  to  her.  She  trembled  so  as  she  took  it,  and  was 
so  remarkably  quiet  about  it,  that  it  suddenly  flashed  upon 
my  mind  that  there  must  be  something  not  as  it  ought  to  be 
about  it. 

"  I  asked  her  a  question  or  two,  and  she  said,  deliberately 
contradicting  herself,  that  the  Herr  Graf  had  not  given  it  to 
her,  but  to  her  husband,  and  then  she  went  away,  and  I  was 
sure  I  should  hear  more  about  it.  I  did.  She  wrote  me  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days,  saying  she  wished  she  were  dead, 
since  Eugen,  by  his  wickedness,  had  destroyed  every  chance 
of  happiness;  she  might  as  well  be  a  widow.  She  sent  me 
a  package  of  letters — my  letters — and  asked  me  to  keep  them, 
together  with  some  other  things,  an  old  desk  among  the  rest. 
She  had  no  means  of  destroying  them  all,  and  she  did  not 
choose  to  carry  them  to  Eothenfels,  whither  she  was  going 
to  be  buried  alive  with  those  awful  people. 

"  I  accepted  the  charge.  For  five — no,  six  years,  the  desk, 
the  papers,  everything  lay  with  some  other  possessions  of 
mine  which  I  could  not  carry  about  with  me  on  the  wander- 


THE  FIEST  VIOLIN.  355 

ing  life  I  led  after  my  father's  death — stored  in  an  old  trunk 
in  the  lumber-room  of  a  cousin's  house.  I  visited  that  house 
last  week. 

"  Certain  circumstances  which  have  occurred  of  late  years 
induced  me  to  look  over  those  papers.  I  burned  the  old 
bundle  of  letters  from  myself  to  her,  and  then  I  looked 
through  the  desk.     In  a  pigeon-hole  I  found  these." 

She  handed  some  pieces  of  paper  to  Graf  Bruno,  who 
looked  at  them.  I,  too,  have  seen  them  since.  They  bore 
the  imitations  of  different  signatures;  her  husband's,  Graf 
Bruno's,  that  of  Anna  Sartorius,  and  others  which  I  did  not 
know. 

The  same  conviction  as  that  which  had  struck  Anna  flashed 
into  the  eyes  of  Graf  von  Rothenfels. 

"  I  found  these,"  repeated  Anna,  "  and  I  knew  in  a  second 
who  was  the  culprit.  He,  your  brother,  is  no  criminal.  She 
forged  the  signature  of  the  Herr  Graf " 

"  Who  forged  the  signature  of  the  Herr  Graf?  "  asked  a 
voice  which  caused  me  to  start  up,  which  brought  all  our  eyes 
from  Anna's  face,  upon  which  they  had  been  fastened,  and 
showed  UP  Eugen  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  compressed 
lips  and  '^A^es  that  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us 
anxiously. 

"  Your  wife,"  said  Anna  calmly.  And  before  anyone  could 
speak  she  went  on:  "I  have  helped  to  circulate  the  lie  about 
you,  Herr  Graf  " — she  spoke  to  Eugen — "  for  I  disliked  you; 
I  disliked  your  family,  and  I  disliked,  or  rather  wished  to 
punish  Miss  Wedderbum  for  her  behavior  to  me.  But  I 
firmly  believed  the  story  I  circulated.  The  moment  I  knew 
the  truth  I  determined  to  set  you  right.  Perhaps  I  was 
pleased  to  be  able  to  circumvent  your  plans.  I  considered 
that  if  I  told  the  truth  to  Friedhelm  Helfen  he  would  be  as 
silent  as  yourself,  because  you  chose  to  be  silent.  The  same 
with  May  Wedderburn;  therefore  I  decided  to  come  to 
headquarters  at  once.  It  is  iiseless  for  you  to  try  to  appear 
guilty  any  longer,"  she  added  mockingly.  "  You  can  tell 
them  all  the  rest,  and  I  will  wish  you  good-afternoon." 

She  was  gone.  From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never  seen 
her  nor  heard  of  her  again.  Probably,  with  her  power  over 
us  her  interest  in  us  ceased. 

Meanwhile  I  had  released  myself  from  the  spell  which  held 
me,  and  gone  to  the  countess.  Something  very  like  fear 
held  me  from  approaching  Eu/*"^' 


366  THE  FIBST  VIOLIN. 

Count  Bruno  had  gone  to  his  brother  and  touched  hig 
shoulder.  Eugen  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met.  It  just  flashed 
into  my  mind  that  after  six  years  of  separation  the  first  words 
were — must  be — words  of  reconciliation:  of  forgiveness  asked 
on  the  one  side,  eagerly  extended  on  the  other. 

"Eugen! "  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  then,  with  a  positive 
sob,  "  canst  thou  forgive?  " 

"  My  brother — I  have  not  resented.    I  could  not.     Honor 

in  thee,  as  honor  in  me " 

But  that  thou  wert  doubted,  hated,  mistak- 


But  another  had  asserted  herself.  The  countess  had  come 
to  herself  again,  and,  going  up  to  him,  looked  him  full  in  the 
face  and  kissed  him. 

"  Now  I  can  die  happy!  What  folly,  Eugen!  and  folly 
like  none  but  thine.     I  might  have  known " 

A  faint  smile  crossed  his  lips.  For  all  the  triumphant 
vindication,  he  looked  very  pallid. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,  Hildegarde,  how  so  proud  a 
woman  as  you  could  so  soon  accept  the  worthlessness  of 
a  pupil  on  whom  she  had  spent  such  pains  as  you  upon  me. 
I  learned  my  best  notions  of  honor  and  chivalry  from  you. 
You  might  have  credited  me  rather  with  trying  carry  the 
lesson  out  than  with  plucking  it  away  and  castir  it  from  me 
at  the  first  opportunity." 

"  You  have  much  to  forgive,"  said  she. 

"  Eugen,  you  came  to  see  me  on  business,"  said  his 
brother. 

Eugen  turned  to  me.  I  turned  hot  and  then  cold.  This 
was  a  terrible  ordeal  indeed.  He  seemed  metamorphosed 
into  an  exceedingly  grand  personage  as  he  came  to  me,  took 
my  hand,  and  said,  very  proudly  and  very  gravely: 

"  The  first  part  of  my  business  related  to  Sigmund.  It  will 
not  need  to  be  discussed  now.  The  rest  was  to  tell  you  that 
this  young  lady — in  spite  of  having  heard  all  that  could  be 
said  against  me — was  still  not  afraid  to  assert  her  intention 
to  honor  me  by  becoming  my  wife  and  sharing  my  fate.  Now 
that  she  has  learned  the  truth — May,  do  you  still  care  for 
me  enough  to  marry  me?  " 

"  If  so,"  interrupted  his  brother  before  J  could  speak,  "  let 
me  add  my  petition  and  that  of  my  wife — do  you  allow  me, 
Hildegarde?  " 

"  Indeed,  yes,  yes!  " 

"  That  she  will  honor  us  and  make  us  hagpy  by  entering 


THE  FThST  YIOLm.  857 

our  family,  which  can  only  gain  by  the  acquisition  of  such 
beauty  and  excellence." 

The  idea  of  being  entreated  by  Graf  Bruno  to  marry  his 
brother  almost  overpowered  me.  I  looked  at  Eugen,  and 
stammered  out  something  inaudible,  confused,  too,  by  the 
look  he  gave  me. 

He  was  changed;  he  was  more  formidable  now  than  before, 
and  he  led  me  silently  up  to  his  brother  without  a  word,  upon 
which  Count  Bruno  crowned  my  confusion  by  uttering  some 
more  very  Grandisonian  words  and  gravely  saluting  my 
cheek.  That  was  certainly  a  terrible  moment,  but  from  that 
day  to  this  I  have  loved  better  and  better  my  haughty 
brother-in-law. 

Half  in  consideration  for  me,  I  believe,  the  countess  began: 

"  But  I  want  to  know,  Eugen,  about  this.  I  don't  quite 
understand  yet  how  you  managed  to  shift  the  blame  upon 
yourself." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  not  want  to  tell,"  said  I  hastily. 

"Yes;  since  the  truth  is  known,  I  may  tell  the  rest,"  said 
he.  "  It  was  a  very  simple  matter.  After  all  was  lost,  my 
only  ray  of  comfort  was  that  I  could  pay  my  debts  by  selling 
everything,  and  throwing  up  my  commission.  But  when  I 
thought  of  my  wife  I  felt  a  devil.  I  suppose  that  is  the  feel- 
ing which  the  devils  do  experience  in  place  of  love — at  least 
Heine  says  so: 

"  *  Die  Teufel  nennen  es  HOllenqual, 
Die  Menschen  uenuen  es  Liebe.' 

"^I  kept  it  from  her  as  long  as  I  could.  It  was  a  week 
after  Sigmund  was  born  that  at  last  one  day  I  had  to  tell  her. 
I  actually  looked  to  her  for  advice,  help.  It  was  tolerably 
presumptuous  in  me,  I  must  say,  after  what  I  had  brought 
her  to.  She  brought  me  to  reason.  May  Heaven  preserv^e 
men  from  needing  such  lessons!  She  reproached  me — ay, 
she  did  reproach  me.  I  thank  my  good  genius,  or  whatever 
it  is  that  looks  after  us,  that  I  could  set  my  teeth  and  not 
answer  her  a  syllable." 

"The  minx!"  said  the  countess  aside  to  me.  "I  would 
have  shaken  her! " 

"  *  What  was  she  to  do  without  a  groschen?  *  she  concluded, 
and  I  could  only  say  that  I  had  had  thoughts  of  dropping  my 
military  career  and  taking  to  music  in  good  earnest.    I  had 


S68  TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

never  been  able  to  neglect  it,  even  in  my  worst  time,  for  it 
was  a  passion  with  me.     She  said: 

"  '  A  composer — a  beggar! '     That  was  hard. 

*'  I  asked  her,  '  Will  you  not  help  me? ' 

" '  ISTever,  to  degrade  yourself  in  that  manner,'  she  as- 
sured me. 

"  Considering  that  I  had  deserved  my  punishment,  I  left 
her.  I  sat  up  all  night,  I  remember,  thinking  over  what  I 
had  brought  her  to,  and  wondering  what  I  could  do  for  her. 
I  wondered  if  you,  Bruno,  would  help  her  and  let  me  go  away 
and  work  out  my  punishment,  for,  believe  me,  I  never 
thought  of  shirking  it.  I  had  been  most  effectually  brought 
to  reason,  and  your  example,  and  yours,  Hildegarde,  had 
taught  me  a  different  kind  of  moral  fiber  to  that. 

"I  brought  your  note  about  the  check  to  Vittoria  and 
asked  her  if  she  knew  anything  about  it.  She  looked  at  me, 
and  in  that  instant  I  knew  the  truth.  She  did  not  once 
attempt  to  deny  it.  I  do  not  know  what,  in  my  horrible 
despair  and  shame,  I  may  have  said  or  done. 

"  I  was  brought  to  my  senses  by  seeing  her  cowering  before 
me,  with  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  begging  me  not  to 
kill  her.  I  felt  what  a  brute  I  must  have  been,  but  that  kind 
of  brutality  has  been  knocked  out  of  me  long  ago.  I  raised 
her,  and  asked  her  to  forgive  me,  and  bade  her  keep  silence 
and  see  no  one,  and  I  would  see  that  she  did  not  suffer  for  it. 

"  Everything  seemed  to  stand  clearly  before  me.  If  I 
had  kept  straight,  the  poor  ignorant  thing  would  never  have 
been  tempted  to  such  a  thing.  I  settled  my  whole  course  in 
half  an  hour,  and  have  never  departed  from  it  since. 

"  I  wrote  that  letter  to  you,  and  went  and  read  it  to  my 
wife.  I  told  her  that  I  could  never  forgive  myself  for  having 
caused  her  such  unhappiness,  and  that  I  was  going  to  release 
her  from  me.  I  only  dropped  a  vague  hint  about  the  boy 
at  first:  I  was  stooping  over  his  crib  to  say  good-by  to  him. 
She  said, '  What  am  I  to  do  with  him?  '  I  caught  at  the  idea, 
and  she  easily  let  me  take  him.  I  asked  Hugo  von  Meilingen 
to  settle  affairs  for  me,  and  left  that  night.  Thanks  to  you, 
Bruno,  the  story  never  got  abroad.     The  rest  you  know." 

"  What  did  you  tell  Hugo  von  Meilingen?  " 

"  Only  that  I  had  made  a  mess  of  everything  and  broken 
my  wife's  heart,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  believe.  He  was 
stanch.  He  settled  up  everything.  Some  day  I  will  thank 
Mm  for  it.     For  two  years  I  traveled  about  a  good  deal.     Sig- 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLm.  359 

niiin3  Has  "Been  more  a  citizen  of  the  world  than  he  knows. 
I  had  so  much  facility  of  execution " 

"  So  much  genius,  you  mean,"  I  interposed. 

"  That  I  never  had  any  difficulty  in  getting  an  engagement. 
I  saw  a  wonderful  amount  of  life  of  a  certain  kind,  and 
learned  most  thoroughly  to  despise  my  own  past,  and  to  enter- 
tain a  thorough  contempt  for  those  who  are  still  leading  such 
lives.  I  have  learned  German  history  in  my  hanishment. 
I  have  lived  with  our  true  heroes — the  lower  middle-classes." 

"  Well,  well!  You  were  always  a  radical,  Eugen,"  said  the 
count  indulgently. 

"  At  last,  at  Koln,  I  ohtained  the  situation  of  first  violinist 
in  the  Elberthal  Kapelle,  and  I  went  over  there  one  wet 
October  afternoon  and  saw  the  director.  Von  Francius.  He 
was  busy,  and  referred  me  to  the  man  who  was  next  below 
me,  Friedhelm  Helfen." 

Eugen  paused,  and  choked  down  some  little  emotion  ere  he 
added: 

"  You  must  know  him.  I  trust  to  have  his  friendship  till 
death  separates  us.  He  is  a  nobleman  of  nature's  most  care- 
ful making — a  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  When  Sig- 
mund  came  here  it  was  he  who  saved  me  from  doing  some- 
thing desperate  or  driveling — there  is  not  much  of  a  step 
between  the  two.  Fraulein  Sartorivis,  who  seems  to  have  a 
peculiar  disposition,  took  it  into  her  head  to  confront  me  with 
a  charge  of  my  guilt  in  a  public  place.  Friedhelm  never 
wavered,  despite  my  shame  and  my  inability  to  deny  the 
charge." 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  beautiful! "  said  the  countess,  in  tears, 
"  We  must  have  him  over  here  and  see  a  great  deal  of  him." 

"  We  must  certainly  know  him,  and  that  soon,"  said  Count 
Bruno. 

At  this  juncture  I,  from  mingled  motives,  stole  from  the 
room  and  found  my  way  to  Sigmund's  bedside,  where  also  Joy 
awaited  me.  The  stupor  and  the  restlessness  had  alike  van- 
ished; he  was  in  a  deep  sleep.  I  knelt  down  by  the  bedside 
and  remained  there  long. 

Nothing,  then,  was  to  be  as  I  had  planned  it.  There  would 
be  no  poverty,  no  shame  to  contend  against — no  struggle  to 
make,  except  the  struggle  up  to  the  standard — so  fearfully 
severe  and  unapproachable,  set  up  by  my  own  husband.  Set 
up  and  acted  upon  by  him.  How  could  I  ever  attain  it  or 
anything  near  it?     Should  I  not  be  constantly  shocking  him 


360  TEE  FIRST  YIOLUr. 

by  coarse,  gross  notions  as  to  the  needlessness  of  this  or  that 
fine  point  of  conduct?  by  my  ill-defined  ideas  as  to  a  code  of 
honor — my  slovenly  ways  of  looking  at  questions? 

It  was  such  a  fearful  height,  this  to  which  he  had  carried 
his  notions  and  behavior  in  the  matter  of  cliivalry  and  loyalty. 
How  was  I  ever  to  help  him  to  carry  it  out,  and,  moreover, 
to  bring  up  this  child  before  me,  and  perhaps  children  of  my 
own,  in  the  same  rules? 

It  was  no  doubt  a  much  more  brilliant  destiny  which 
actually  awaited  me  than  any  which  I  had  anticipated — the 
wife  of  a  nobleman,  with  the  traditions  of  a  long  line  of 
noblemen  and  noblewomen  to  support,  and  a  husband  with 
the  most  impossible  ideas  upon  the  subject. 

I  felt  afraid.  I  thought  of  that  poor,  vain,  selfish  first 
wife,  and  I  wondered  if  ever  the  time  might  come  when  I 
might  fall  in  his  eyes  as  she  had  fallen,  for  scrupulous  though 
he  was  to  cast  no  reproach  upon  her,  I  felt  keenly  that  he 
despised  her,  that  had  she  lived  after  that  dreadful  discovery 
he  would  never  have  loved  her  again.  It  was  awful  to  tliink 
of.  True,  I  should  never  commit  forgery;  but  I  might,  with- 
out knowing  it,  fail  in  some  other  way,  and  then — woe  to  me! 

Thus  dismally  cogitating  I  was  roused  by  a  touch  on  my 
shoulder  and  a  kiss  on  the  top  of  my  head.  Eugen  was  lean- 
ing over  me,  laughing. 

"  You  have  been  saying  your  prayers  so  long  that  I  was 
sure  you  must  be  asking  too  much." 

I  confided  some  of  my  doubts  and  fears  to  him,  for  with  his 
actual  presence  that  dreadful  height  of  morality  seemed  to 
dwindle  down.  He  was  human,  too — quick,  impulsive,  a  very 
mortal.     And  he  said: 

"  I  would  ask  thee  one  thing.  May.  Thou  dost  not  seem 
to  see  what  makes  all  the  difference.  I  loved  Vittoria;  I 
longed  to  make  some  sacrifice  for  her,  would  she  but  have  let 
me.     But  she  could  not;  poor  girl!     She  did  not  love  me." 

"Well?" 

"  Well!     Mein  Engel — you  do,"  said  he,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  I  see!  "  said  I,  feeling  myself  blushing  violently. 
Yes,  it  was  true.  Our  union  should  be  different  from  that 
former  one.  After  all  it  was  pleasant  to  find  that  the  high 
tragedy  which  we  had  so  wisely  planned  for  ourselves  had 
made  a  faux  pas  and  come  ignominiously  to  ground. 


TEE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  861 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  And  surely,  when  all  this  is  past 
They  shall  not  want  their  rest  at  last." 

On"  the  23d  of  December — I  will  not  say  how  few  or  how 
many  years  after  those  doings  and  that  violent  agitation 
which  my  friend  Griifin  May  has  striven  to  make  coherent  in 
the  last  chapter — I,  with  my  greatcoat  on  my  arm,  stood 
waiting  for  the  train  which  was  to  bear  me  ten  miles  away 
from  the  sleepy  old  musical  ducal  Hauptstadt,  in  which  I  am 
Herzoglicher  Kapellmeister,  to  Eothenfels,  where  I  was 
bidden  to  spend  Christmas.  I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Having 
ascertained  that  my  bag  was  safe,  in  which  reposed  divers 
humble  proofs  of  my  affection  for  the  friends  of  the  past,  I 
looked  leisurely  out  as  the  train  came  in  for  a  second-class 
carriage,  and  very  soon  found  what  I  wanted.  I  shook  hands 
with  an  acquaintance  and  leaned  out  of  the  window,  talking 
to  him  till  the  train  started.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  began 
to  look  at  my  fellow-traveler;  a  lady,  and  most  distinctly  not 
one  of  my  own  countrywomen,  who,  whatever  else  they  may 
excel  in,  emphatically  do  not  know  how  to  clothe  themselves 
for  traveling.  Her  veil  was  down,  but  her  face  was  turned 
toward  me,  and  I  thought  I  knew  something  of  the  grand 
sweep  of  the  splendid  shoulders  and  majestic  bearing  of  the 
stately  form.  She  soon  raised  her  veil,  and,  looking  at  me, 
said,  with  a  grave  bow: 

"  Herr  Helfen,  how  do  you  do?  " 

"  Ah,  pardon  me,  gjiddige  Frau;  for  the  moment  I  did  not 
recognize  you.     I  hope  you  are  well," 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  she  with  grave  courtesy;  but 
I  saw  that  her  beautiful  face  was  thin  and  worn,  her  pallor 
greater  than  ever. 

She  had  never  been  a  person  much  given  to  mirthfulness; 
but  now  she  looked  as  if  all  smiles  had  passed  forever  from 
her  lips — a  certain  secret  sat  upon  them,  and  closed  them  in 
an  outline,  sweet,  but  utterly  impenetrable. 

"  You  are  going  to  Eothenfels,  I  presume?  "  she  said. 

"Yes.     And  you  also?" 

"I  also — somewhat  against  my  will;  but  I  did  not  want  to 
hurt  my  sister's  feelings.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  left  home 
«ince  my  husband's  death." 

X  bowed.     Her  face  did  not  alter.     Calm,  sad,  and  staid-— 


362  TEE  yiBST  VIOLIK 

whatever  storms  had  once  shaken  that  proud  hearr,  they  were 
lulled  forever  now. 

Two  years  ago  Adelaide  von  Francius  had  hurled  keen 
grief  and  sharp  anguish,  together  with  vivid  hope  or  great 
joy,  with  her  noble  husband,  whom  we  had  mourned  bitterly 
then,  whom  we  yet  mourn  in  our  hearts,  and  whom  we  shall 
continue  to  mourn  as  long  as  we  live. 

May's  passionate  conviction  that  he  and  she  should  meet 
again  had  been  fulfilled.  They  had  met,  and  each  had  found 
the  other  unchanged;  and  Adelaide  had  begun  to  yield  to  the 
conviction  that  her  sister's  love  was  love,  pure  and  simple, 
and  not  pity.  Since  his  death  she  had  continued  to  live  in 
the  town  in  which  their  married  life  had  been  passed — a  life 
which  for  her  was  just  beginning  to  be  happy — that  is  to  say, 
she  was  just  learning  to  allow  herself  to  be  happy,  in  the  firm 
assurance  of  his  unalterable  love  and  devotion,  when  the  sum- 
mons came;  a  sharp  attack,  a  short  illness,  all  over — eyes 
closed,  lips,  too — silent  before  her  for  evermore. 

It  has  often  been  my  fate  to  hear  criticisms  both  on  Yon 
Francius  and  his  wife  and  upon  their  conduct.  This  I  know, 
that  she  never  forgave  herself  the  step  she  had  taken  in  her 
despair.  Her  pride  never  recovered  from  the  burden  laid 
upon  it — that  she  had  taken  the  initiative,  had  followed  the 
man  who  had  said  farewell  to  her.  Bad  her  lot  was  to  be, 
sad,  and  joyless,  whether  in  its  gilded  cage,  or  linked  with 
the  man  whom  she  loved,  but  to  be  with  whom  she  had  had 
to  pay  so  terrible  a  price.  I  have  never  heard  her  complain 
of  life  and  the  world;  yet  she  can  find  neither  very  sweet,  for 
she  is  an  extremely  proud  woman,  who  has  made  two  terrible 
failures  in  her  affairs. 

Von  Francius,  before  he  died,  had  made  a  mark  not  to  be 
erased  in  the  hearts  of  his  musical  compatriots.  Had  he 
lived — but  that  is  vain!  Still,  one  feels — one  cannot  but 
feel — that,  as  his  widow  said  to  me,  with  matter-of-fact 
composure: 

"  He  was  much  more  hardly  to  be  spared  than  such  a  per- 
son as  I,  Herr  Helfen.  If  I  might  have  died  and  left  him  to 
enrich  and  gladden  the  world,  I  should  have  felt  that  I  had 
not  made  such  a  mess  of  everything  after  all." 

Yet  she  never  referred  to  him  as  "  my  poor  husband,"  or 
by  any  of  those  softening  terms  by  which  some  people  ap- 
proach the  name  of  a  dead  dear  one;  all  the  same  we  knew, 
quite  well  that  with  him  life  had  died  for  her. 


TEE  FIRST  VlOim.  363 

Since  his  death  she  and  I  had  heen  in  frequent  communica- 
tion; she  was  editing  a  new  edition  of  his  works,  for  which^ 
after  liis  death,  there  had  been  an  instant  call.  It  had  lately 
been  completed;  and  the  music  of  our  former  friend  shall,  if 
I  mistake  not,  become,  in  the  best  and  highest  sense  of  the 
word,  popular  music — the  people's  music.  I  had  been  her 
eager  and,  she  was  pleased  to  say,  able  assistant  in  the  work. 

We  journeyed  on  together  through  the  winter  country,  and 
I  glanced  at  her  now  and  then — at  the  still,  pale  face  which 
rose  above  her  English-fashioned  sealskin,  and  wondered  how 
it  was  that  some  faces,  though  never  so  young  and  beautiful, 
have  written  upon  them,  in  unmistakable  characters,  "  The 
End,"  as  one  saw  upon  her  face.  Still,  we  talked  about  all 
kinds  of  matters — musical,  private,  and  public.  I  asked  if 
she  went  out  at  all. 

"  Only  to  concerts  with  the  Von  s,  who  have  been 

friends  of  mine  ever  since  I  went  to ,"  she  replied;  and 

then  the  train  rolled  into  the  station  of  Lahnburg. 

There  was  a  group  of  faces  I  knew  waiting  to  meet  us. 

"Ah!  there  is  my  sister  Stella,"  said  Adelaide  in  a  low 
voice.  "How  she  is  altered!  And  that  is  May's  husband, 
I  suppose.     I  remember  his  face,  now  that  I  see  it." 

We  had  been  caught  sight  of.  Four  people  came  crowding 
round  us.  Eugen — my  eyes  fell  upon  him  first — we  grasped 
hands  silently.  His  wife,  looking  lovelier  than  ever  in  her 
winter  furs  and  feathers.  A  tall  boy  in  a  sealskin  cap — my 
Sigmund — who  had  been  hanging  on  his  father's  arm,  and 
whose  eyes  welcomed  me  more  volubly  than  his  tongue,  which 
was  never  given  to  excessive  wagging. 

May  and  Frau  von  Francius  went  liome  in  a  carriage  which 
Sigmund,  under  the  direction  of  an  awful-looking  Kutscher^ 
drove. 

Stella,  Eugen,  and  I  walked  to  Eothenfels,  and  they  quar- 
reled, as  they  always  did,  while  I  listened  and  gave  an  encour- 
aging word  to  each  in  turn.  Stella  Wedderbum  was  very 
beautiful;  and,  after  spending  Christmas  at  Eothenfels,  she 
was  going  home  to  be  married.  Eugen,  May,  and  Sigmund 
were  going,  too,  for  the  first  time  since  May's  marriage. 

Graf  Bruno  that  year  had  temporarily  abdicated  his  throne, 
and  Eugen  had  been  constituted  host  for  the  season.  The 
guests  were  his  and  his  wife's;  the  arrangements  were  his,  and 
the  entertainment  fell  to  his  share. 

Grafin  Hildegarde  looked  a  httle  amazed  at  such  of  her 


d64  TSE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

guests,  for  instance,  as  Karl  Linders.  She  had  got  over  the 
first  shock  of  seeing  me  a  regular  visitor  in  the  house,  and 
was  pleased  to  draw  me  aside  on  this  occasion  and  inform  me 
that  really  that  young  man,  Herr  Linders,  was  presentable — 
quite  presentable — and  never  forgot  himself;  he  had  handed 
her  into  her  carriage  yesterday  really  quite  creditably.  No 
doubt  it  was  long  friendship  with  Eugen  which  had  given 
him  that  extra  polish. 

"Indeed,  Frau  Grafin,  he  was  always  like  that.  It  is 
natural," 

"  He  is  very  presentable,  really — very.  But  as  a  friend  of 
Eugen's,"  and  she  smiled  condescendingly  upon  me,  "he 
would  naturally  be  so." 

In  truth,  Karl  was  Karl.  "  Time  had  not  thinned  his  flow- 
ing locks; "  he  was  as  handsome,  as  impulsive,  and  as  true  as 
ever;  had  added  two  babies  to  his  responsibilities,  who,  with 
his  beloved  Frau  Gemahlin,  had  likewise  been  bidden  to  this 
festivity  but  had  declined  to  quit  the  stove  and  private 
Christmas-tree  of  home  hfe.  He  wore  no  more  short  jackets 
now;  his  sister  Gretchen  was  engaged  to  a  young  doctor,  and 
Karl's  head  was  growing  higher — as  it  deserved — for  it  had 
no  mean  or  shady  deeds  to  bow  it. 

The  company  then  consisted  in  Mo  of  Graf  and  Grafin  von 
Eothenfels,  who,  I  must  record  it,  both  looked  full  ten  years 
younger  and  better  since  their  prodigal  was  returned  to  them, 
of  Stella  Wedderburn,  Frau  von  Francius,  Karl  Linders,  and 
Friedhelm  Helfen.  May,  as  I  said,  looked  loveHer  than  ever. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  the  darling  of  the  elder  brother 
and  his  wife.  She  was  a  radiant,  bright  creature,  yet  her 
deepest  afEections  were  given  to  sad  people^ — to  her  husband, 
to  her  sister  Adelaide,  to  Countess  Hildegarde. 

She  and  Eugen  are  well  mated.  It  is  true  he  is  not  a  very 
cheerful  man — his  face  is  melancholy.  In  his  eyes  is  a 
shadow  which  never  wholly  disappears — lines  upon  his  broad 
and  tranquil  brow  wliich  are  indelible.  He  has  honor  and 
titles  and  a  name  clean  and  high  before  men,  but  it  was  not 
always  so.  That  terrible  bringing  to  reason — that  six  years' 
grinding  lesson  of  suffering,  self-suppression — ay,  self-efface- 
ment— have  left  their  marks,  a  "shadow  plain  to  see,"  and 
will  never  leave  him.  He  is  a  different  man  from  the  outcast 
who  stepped  forth  into  the  night  with  a  weird  upon  him,  nor 
ever  looked  back  till  it  was  dreed  out  in  darkness  to  its  utmost 
term. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIK.  365 

He  has  tasted  of  the  sorrows — the  self-brought  sorrows — 
which  make  merry  men  into  sober  ones;  the  sorrows  which 
test  a  man  and  prove  his  character  to  be  of  gold  or  of  dross, 
and  therefore  he  is  grave.  Grave,  too,  is  the  son  who  is  more 
worshiped  by  both  him  and  his  wife  than  any  of  their  other 
children.  Sigmund  von  Eothenfels  is  what  outsiders  call  "  a 
strange,  incomprehensible  child  ";  seldom  smiles,  and  has  no 
child  friends.  His  friends  are  his  father  and  "  Mother  May  " 
— Miitterchen,  he  calls  her;  and  it  is  quaint  sometimes  to  see 
how  on  an  equality  the  three  meet  and  associate.  His  notions 
of  what  is  fit  for  a  man  to  be  and  do  he  takes  from  his  father; 
his  ideal  woman — I  am  sure  he  has  one — would,  I  believe, 
turn  out  to  be  a  subtle  and  impossible  compound  of  May  and 
his  Aunt  Hildegarde. 

We  sometimes  speculate  as  to  what  he  will  turn  out.  Per- 
haps the  musical  genius  which  his  father  will  not  bring  before 
the  world  in  himself  may  one  day  astonish  that  world  in  Sig- 
mund. It  is  certain  that  his  very  life  seems  bound  up  in  the 
art,  and  in  that  house  and  that  circle  it  must  be  a  very  Cali- 
ban, or  something  yet  lower,  which  could  resist  the  influence. 

One  day  May,  Eugen,  Karl,  and  I  repaired  to  the  music- 
room  and  played  together  the  Fourth  Symphonic  and  some 
of  Schumann's  "  Kinderscenen,"  but  May  began  to  cry  before 
it  was  over,  and  the  rest  of  us  had  thoughts  that  did  lie  too 
deep  for  tears — thoughts  of  that  far-back  afternoon  of  Carni- 
val Monday,  and  how  we  "  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  " 
— of  all  that  came  before — and  after. 

Between  me  and  Eugen  there  has  never  come  a  cloud,  nor 
the  faintest  shadow  of  one.  Built  upon  days  passed  together 
in  storm  and  sunshine,  weal  and  woe,  good  report  and  evil 
report,  our  union  stands  upon  a  firm  foundation  of  that 
nether  rock  of  friendship,  perfect  trust,  perfect  faith,  love 
stronger  than  death,  which  makes  a  peace  in  our  hearts,  a 
mighty  influence  in  our  lives  which  very  truly  *'passeth 
nnderstanding." 


THE  END. 


)       NEW  POPULAR  EDITIONS  OF 

MARY  JOHNSTON'S 
NOVELS 

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AUDREY 

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Agnes  Repplier, 

PRISONERS  OF  HOPE 

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as  '  Graustark  '  and  quite  as  ew\.eriz\mng.^'—Book7nan.  "  A  charm- 
ing love  story  well  told..' ^—Boston  Transcript, 

HALF  A  ROGUE.  By  Harold  MacGrath.  With  illustra- 
tions and  inlay  cover  picture  by  Harrison  Fisher, 
"  Here  are  dexterity  of  plot,  glancing  play  at  ■nntty  talk,  characters 
really  human  and  humanly  real,  spirit  and  gladness,  freshness  and 
quick  movement.  '  Half  a  Rogue  '  is  as  brisk  as  a  horseback  ride  on 
a  glorious  morning.  It  is  as  varied  as  an  April  day.  It  is  as  charming 
as  two  most  charming  girls  can  make  it.  Love  and  honor  and  suc- 
cess and  all  the  great  things  worth  fighting  for  and  living  for  the  in- 
volved in  '  Half  a  Rogue.'  " — Phila.  Press. 

THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE.  By  Charles  Clark 
Munn.  With  illustrations  by  Frank  T.  Merrill, 
"  Figuring  in  the  pages  of  this  story  there  are  several  strong  char- 
acters. Typical  New  England  folk  and  an  especially  sturdy  one,  old 
Cy  Walker,  through  whose  instrumentality  Chip  comes  to  happiness 
and  fortune.  There  is  a  chain  of  comedy,  tragedy,  pathos  and  love, 
•which  makes  a  dramatic  story,  "—Boston  Herald. 

1  HE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE.    A  story  of  American  Life. 

By  Charles  Klein,  and  Arthur  Hornblow.      With  illustra- 

tions  by  Stuart  Travis,  and  Scenes  from  the  Play. 

The  novel  duplicated  the  success  of  the  play ;  in  fact  the  book  is 

greater  than  the  play.     A  portentous  clash  of  dominant  personalties 

that  form  the  essence  of  the  play  are  necessarily  touched  upon  but 

briefly  in  the  short  space  of  four  acts.      All  this  is  narrated  in  the 

novel  with  a  wealth  of  fascinating  and  absorbing  detail,  making  it  one 

of  the  most  powerfully  written  and  exciting  works  of  fiction  given  to 

the  world  in  years. 

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Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

BARBARA  WINSLOW,  REBEL.  Bv  Elizabeth  Ellis. 
With  illustrations  by  John  Rae,  and  colored  inlay  cover. 
The  following,  taken  from  story,  will  best  describe  the  heroine : 
ATOAiST:  "  To  the  bravest  comrade  in  misfortune,  the  sweetest 
companion  in  peace  and  at  all  times  the  most  courageous  of  women." 
— Barbara  Winslow.  "  A  romantic  story,  buoyant,  eventful,  and  in 
matters  of  love  exactly  what.the  heart^could  desire. " — JVew  York  Sun. 

SUSAN.  By  Ernest  Oldmeadow.  With  a  color  frontispiece 
by  Frank  Haviland.  Medalion  in  color  on  front  cover. 
Lord  Ruddington  falls  helplessly  in  love  with  Miss  Langley,  whom 
be  sees  in  one  of  her  walks  accompanied  by  her  maid,  Susan. 
Through  a  misapprehension  of  personalities  his  lordship  addresses 
a  love  missive  to  the  maid.  Susan  accepts  in  perfect  good  faith, 
and  an  epistolary  love-making  goes  on  till  they  are  disillusioned.  It 
naturally  makes  a  droll  and  delightful  little  comedy ;  and  is  a  story 
that  is  particularly  clever  in  the  telling. 

WHEN  PATTY  WENT  TO  COLLEGE.    By  Jean  Web- 

ster.  With  illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 
"The  book  is  a  treasure." — Chicago  Daily  N'ews.  "Bright, 
whimsical,  and  thoroughly  entertaining." — Buffalo  Express.  "One 
of  the  best  stories  of  life  in  a  girl's  college  that  has  ever  been  writ- 
ten."— I^.  Y.  Press.  "  To  any  woman  who  has  enjoyed  the  pleasures 
of  a  coUege'lif  e  this  book  cannot  fail  to  bring  back  many  sweet  recol- 
lections ;  and  to  those  who  have  not  been  to  college  the  wit,  lightness, 
and  charm  of  Patty  are  sure  to  be  no  less  delightful.  "—Public  Opinion. 

THE  MASQUERADER.  By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston. 
With  illustrations  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 
"  You  can't  drop  it  till  you  have  turned  the  last  page." — Cleveland 
Leader.  "  Its  very  audacity  of  motive,  of  execution,  of  solution,  al- 
most takes  one's  breath  away.  The  boldness  of  its  denouement 
is  sublime." — Boston  Transc7-ipt.  "  The  literary  hit  of  a  generation. 
The  best  of  it  is  the  story  deserves  all  its  success.  A  masterly  story." 
— St.  Louis  Dispatch.  "  The  story  is  ingeniously  told,  and  cleverly 
constructed."— 7/it.'  Dial. 

THE  GAMBLER.  By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston.  With 
illustrations  by  John  Campbell. 
"  Tells  of  a  high  strung  young  Irish  woman  who  has  a  passion  for 
gambling,  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  sporting  ancestors.  She  has 
a  high  sense  of  honor,  too,  and  that  causes  complications.  She  is  a 
very  human,  lovable  character,  and  love  saves  ner." — N.  Y.  Times. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      I      NEW  YORK 


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Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  INN.  By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 
With  illustrations  by  Martin  Justice. 
"  As  superlatively  clever  in  the  writing  as  it  is  entertaining  in  the 
reading.  It  is  actual  comedy  of  the  most  artistic  sort,  and  it  is 
handled  with  a  freshness  and  originality  that  is  unquestionably 
novel." — Boston  Transcript.  "  A  feast  of  humor  and  good  cheer, 
yet  subtly  pervaded  by  special  shades  of  feeling,  fancy,  tenderness, 
or  whimsicality.    A  merry  thing  in  prose. " — St.  Louis  Democrat. 

ROSE  O'  THE  RIVER.  By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin.  With 
illustrations  by  George  Wright. 
"  '  Rose  o'  the  River,'  a  charming  bit  of  sentiment,  gracefully 
written  and  deftly  touched  with  a  gentle  humor.  It  is  a  dainty  book 
—daintily  illustrated." — New  York  Tribune.  "A  wholesome,  bright, 
refreshing  story,  an  ideal  book  to  give  a  young  girl." — Chicago 
Record-Herald.  "  An  idyllic  story,  replete  with  pathos  and  inimita- 
ble humor.  As  story-telling  it  is  perfection,  and  as  portrait-painting 
it  is  true  to  the  life." — London  Mail. 

TILLIE :  A  Mennonite  Maid.  By  Helen  R.  Martin.  With 
illustrations  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 
The  little  "  Mennonite  Maid  "  who  wanders  through  these  pages 
is  something  quite  new  in  fiction.  Tillie  is  hungry  for  books  and 
beauty  and  love ;  and  she  comes  into  her  inheritance  at  the  end. 
"  Tillie  is  faulty,  sensitive,  big-hearted,  eminently  human,  and  first, 
last  and  always  lovable.  Her  charm  glows  warmly,  the  story  is  well 
handled,  the  characters  skilfully  developed." — The  Book  Buyer. 

LADY  ROSE'S  DAUGHTER.  By  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 
With  illustrations  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
•'The  most  marvellous  work  of  its  wonderful  author."— iV^w  York 
World.  "We  touch  regions  and  attain  altitudes  which  it  is  not  given 
to  the  ordinary  novelist  even  to  approach." — London  Times.  "In 
no  other  story  has  Mrs.  Ward  approached  the  brilliancy  and  vivacity 
of  Lady  Rose's  Daughter." — North  American  Review. 

THE  BANKER'AND  THE  BEAR.    By  Henry  K.  Webster. 

"An  exciting  and  absorbing  story." — N^ew  York  Times.  "Intense- 
ly thrilling  in  parts,  but  an  unusually  good  story  all  through.  There 
is  a  love  affair  of  real  charm  and  most  novel  surroundings,  there  is  a 
run  on  the  bank  which  is  almost  worth  a  year's  growth,  and  there  is 
all  manner  of  exhilarating  men  and  deeds  which  should  bring  the 
book  into  high  and  permanent  favor." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

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BIRD  NEIGHBORS.  An  Introductory  Acquaint- 
ance with  150  Birds  Commonly  Found  in  the  Woods, 
Fields  and  Gardens  About  Our  Homes.  By  Neltje 
Blanchan.  With  an  Introduction  by  John  Burroughs, 
and  many  plates  of  birds  in  natural  colors.  Large 
Quarto,  size  7^x10^,  Cloth.  Formerly  published 
at  |2.oo.       Our  special  price,  $1.00. 

As  an  aid  to  the  elementary  study  of  bird  life  nothing  has  ever  been 
published  more  satisfactory  than  this  most  successful  of  Nature 
Books.  This  book  makes  the  identification  of  our  birds  simple  and 
positive,  even  to  the  uninitiated,  through  certain  unique  features. 

I.  All  the  birds  are  grouped  according  to  color,  in  the  belief  that  a 
bird's  coloring  is  the  first  and  often  the  only  characteristic  noticed. 

II.  By  another  classification,  the  birds  are  grouped  according  to  their 
season.  III.  All  the  popular  names  by  which  a  bird  is  known  are 
given  both  in  the  descriptions  and  the  index.  The  colored  plates 
are  the  most  beautiful  and  accurate  ever  given  in  a  moderate-priced 
and  popular  book.  The  most  successful  and  widely  sold  Nature 
Book  yet  published. 

BIRDS  THAT  HUNT  AND  ARE  HUNTED.  Life 
Histories  of  170  Birds  of  Prey,  Game  Birds  and  Water- 
Fowls.  By  Neltje  Blanchan.  With  Introduction  by 
G.  O.  Shields  (Coquina).  24  photographic  illustra- 
tions in  color.  Large  Quarto,  size  75^x10^.  Form- 
erly published  at  $2.00.      Our  special  price,  $1.00. 

No  work  of  its  class  has  ever  been  issued  that  contains  so  much 
valuable  information,  presented  with  such  felicity  and  charm.  The 
colored  plates  are  true  to  nature.  By  their  aid  alone  any  bird  illus- 
trated may  be  readily  identified.  Sportsmen  will  especially  relish 
the  twenty-four  color  plates  which  show  the  more  important  birds  in 
characteristic  poses.  They  are  probably  the  most  valnable  and 
artistic  pictures  of  the  kind  available  to-day. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      '-  NEW  YORK 


NATURE      BOOKS 

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NATURE'S  GARDEN.      An  Aid  to  Knowledge  of 

Our  Wild  Flowers  and  Their  Insect  Visitors.  24  col- 
ored plates,  and  many  other  illustrations  photographed 
directly  from  nature.  Text  by  Neltje  Blanchan. 
Large  Quarto,  size  7^x10^.  Cloth.  Formerly  pub- 
lished at  I3.00  net.     Our  special  price,  $1.25. 

Suberb  color  portraits  of  many  familiar  flowers  in 
their  living  tints,  and  no  less  beautiful  pictures  in 
black  and  white  of  others — each  blossom  photo- 
graphed directly  from  nature — form  an  unrivaled 
series.  By  their  aid  alone  the  novice  can  name  the 
flowers  met  afield. 

Intimate  life-histories  of  over  five  hundred  species 
of  wild  flowers,  written  in  untechnical,  vivid  lan- 
guage, emphasize  the  marvelously  interesting  and 
vital  relationship  existing  between  these  flowers  and 
the  special  insect  to  which  each  is  adapted. 

The  flowers  are  divided  into  five  color  groups,  be- 
cause by  this  arrangement  any  one  with  no  knowl- 
edge of  botany  whatever  can  readily  identify  the 
specimens  met  during  a  walk.  The  various  popular 
names  by  which  each  species  is  known,  its  preferred 
dwelling-place,  months  of  blooming  and  geographical 
distribution  follow  its  description.  Lists  of  berry- 
bearing  and  other  plants  most  conspicuous  after  the 
flowering  season,  of  such  as  grow  together  in  differ- 
ent kinds  of  soil,  and  finally  of  family  groups  ar- 
ranged by  that  method  of  scientific  classification 
adopted  by  the  International  Botanical  Congress 
which  has  now  superseded  all  others,  combine  to 
make  "  Nature's  Garden"  an  indispensable  guide. 

GROSSET  &  DUN  LAP,  -  NEW  YORK 


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'  Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
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tions of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  SERVICE.  By  Edith  Elmer 
Wood.  With  illustrations  by  Rufus  Zogbaum. 
The  standards  and  life  of  "  the  new  navy  "  are  breezily  set  forth 
with  a  geumne  ring  impossible  from  the  most  gifted  "outsider." 
"  The  story  of  the  destruction  of  the  '  Maine,'  and  of  the  Battle  of 
Manila,  are  very  dramatic.  The  author  is  the  daughter  of  one  naval 
officer  and  the  wife  of  another.  Naval  folks  will  find  much  to  inter- 
est them  in  '  The  Spirit  of  the  Service.'  "—The  Book  Buyer. 

A  SPECTRE  OF  POWER.  By  Charles  Egbert  Craddock. 
Miss  Murfree  has  pictured  Tennessee  mountains  and  the  mountain 
people  m  striking  colors  and  with  dramatic  vividness,  but  goes  back 
to  the  time  of  the  struggles  of  the  French  and  English  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century  for  possession  of  the  Cherokee  territory.  The 
story  abounds  in  adventure,  mystery,  peril  and  suspense. 

THE  STORM  CENTRE.    By  Charles  Egbert  Craddock. 

A  war  story ;  but  more  of  flirtation,  love  and  courtship  than  of 
fighting  or  history.  The  tale  is  thoroughly  readable  and  takes  its 
readers  again  into  golden  Tennessee,  into  the  atmosphere  which  has 
distinguished  all  of  Miss  Murfree's  novels. 

THE  ADVENTURESS.    By  Coralie  Stanton.    With  color 
frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher,  and  attractive  inlay  cover 
in  colors. 
As  a  penalty  for  her  crimes,  her  evil  nature,  her  flint-like  callous- 
ness, her  more  than  inhuman  cruelty,  her  contempt  for  the  laws  of 
God  and  man,  she  was  condemned  to  bury  her  magnificent  personal- 
ty, her  transcendent  beauty,   her  superhuman   charms,    in    gilded 
obscurity  at  a  King's  left  hand.    A  powerful  story  powerfully  told. 

THE  GOLDEN  GREYHOUND.  A  Novel  by  Dwight 
Tilton.  With  illustrations  by  E.  Pollak. 
A  thoroughly  good  story  that  keeps  you  guessing  to  the  very  end, 
and  never  attempts  to  instruct  or  reform  you.  It  is  a  strictly  up-to- 
date  story  of  love  and  mystery  with  wireless  telegraphy  and  all  the 
modern  improvements.  The  events  nearly  all  take  place  on  a  big 
Atlantic  hner  and  the  romance  of  the  deep  is  skilfully  made  to  serve 
as  a  setting  for  the  romance,  old  as  mankind,  yet  always  new,  in- 
volving our  hero. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      '-  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  ON  GARDENING  AND  FARMING 

THREE    ACRES    AND    LIBERTY.       By    Bolton  Hall. 
Shows  the  value  gained  by  intensive  culture.      Should  be 
in  the  hands  of  every  landholder.     Profusely  illustrated. 
i2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 
Every  chapter  in  the  book  has  been  revised  by  a  specialist.      The 
author  clearly  brings  out  the  full  value  that  is  to  be  derived  from  in- 
tensive culture  and  intelligent  methods  given  to  small  land  holdings. 
Given  untrammelled  opportunity,  agriculture  will  not  only  care  well 
for  itself  and  for  those  intelligently  engaged  in  it,  but  it  will  give 
stability  to  all  other  industries  and  pursuits.     (From  the  Preface.) 
"  The  author  piles  fact  upon  authenticated  instance  and  successful 
experiment  upon  proved  example,  until  there  is  no  doubt  what  can 
be  done  with  land  intensively  treated.      He  shows  where  the  land 
may  be  found,  what  kind  we  must  have,  what  it  will  cost,  and  what 
to  do  with  it.      It  is  seldom  we  find  so  much  enthusiasm  tempered 
by  so  much  experience  and  common  sense.    The  book  points  out  in 
a  practical  way  the  possiblities  of  a  very  small  farm  intensively  cul- 
tivated.    It  embodies  the  results  of  actual  experience  and  it  is  in- 
tended to  be  workable  in  every  detail." — Providence  Journal. 

NEW  CREATIONS  IN  PLANT  LIFE.    By  W.  S.  Har- 

wood  and  Luther  Burbank.      An  Authoritative  Account 

of  the  Work   of    Luther    Burbank.      With   48   full-page 

half-tone  plates,     izmo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

Mr.  Burbank  has  produced  more  new  forms  of  plant  life  than  any 

other  man  who  has  ever  lived.     These  have  been  either  for  the 

adornment  of  the  world,  such  as  new  and  improved  flowers,  or  for 

the  enrichment  of  the  world,  such  as  new  and  improved  fruits,  nuts, 

vegetables,  grasses,  trees  and  the  like.      This  volume  describes  his 

life  and  work  in  detail,  presenting  a  clear  statement  of  his  methods, 

showing  how  others  may  follow  the  same  lines,  and  introducing  much 

never  before  made  public.     "  Luther  Burbank  is  unquestionably  the 

greatest  student  of  human  life  and  philosophy  of  living  things  in 

America,  if  not  in  the  world." — S.  H.  Comings,  Cor.  Sec.  American 

League  of  Industrial  Education. 

A  WOMAN'S  HARDY  GARDEN.    By  Helena  Rutherfurd 
Ely.      Superbly  illustrated  with  49  full-page  halftone  en- 
gravings   from    photographs  by   Prof.   C.   F.   Chandler. 
i2mo.     Cloth. 
"  Mrs.  Ely  is  the  wisest  and  most  winsome  teacher  of  the  fascinat- 
ing art  of  gardening  that  we  have  met  in  modern  print.    *    *    *    A 
book  to  be  welcomed  with  enthusiasm."— A>w  York  Tribune.    "Let 
us  sigh  with  gratitude  and  read  the  volume  with  delight.      For  here 
it  all  is  :  What  we  should  plant,  and  when  we  shonld  plant  it ;  how 
to  care  for  it  after  it  is  planted  and  growing;  what  to  do  if  it  does 
not  grow  and  blossom  ;  what  will  blossom,  and  when  it  will  blossotn, 
and  what  the  blossom  will  be.    It  is  full  of  garden  lore ;  of  the  spirit 
of  happy  out-door  life.    A  good  and  wholesome  book. —  The  Dial. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  '-  NEW  YORK 


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